by Unknown
"Tracel!" he yelled before slamming the door behind him and running down the steps.
The voice that yelled back almost stunned him. There was pounding followed by rattling. The noise made Gren's heart beat faster and banished the images of Tracel's corpse from his imagination. He jumped over the last few steps and stopped. The small room contained only two cells, smaller than those which had held the other villagers with doors made from sheets of metal.
One of the doors rattled again, making him jump. He fumbled with the keys he had latched to his belt. As he tried one after another, he tried to ignore the shaking of his hands. What was happening to him?
Please, please, please. Let this work.
The key slipped in and turned. The bolt pulled back. Fear shot through him as he opened the door, hoping it was really her and not someone else.
"Gren!"
Tracel jumped at him. He stumbled back, hugging her close. Her arms wound around his neck, her forehead ramming into his collar bone. Her arms tightened, choking him.
He pushed her back to look her over. Her clothes were disheveled and dirty, the bottom of her skirt torn and her scarf missing. Peeking out from the sleeves of her tunic, he thought he saw the blue tinge of small bruises in a row on her arm. Pushing back her hair, he tugged his fingers through the blond and red tresses, tangled and matted with blood.
Gren froze, clutching her head.
Tracel grasped his wrist. "It's not mine," she said. Her fingers moved down his wrist and over his fingers, her hand flattening over his. She kissed his lips, coaxing him to relax.
Gren pushed her away. "Whose is it?"
Tracel pursed her lips. "Allon's." She licked her bottom lip, looking away. "He had… an accident. With my fists. And a very well-placed fire poker."
"You've got to be—"
Tracel pressed her fingertips to his lips. "Trust me, you'll like the story. Later. I don't know what's going on, but I don't think we have much time. Sounds like a battle from here."
"We don't, and it is. Aeley's come to settle the problem and leaving dead men behind."
"I see." She glanced around the room, surprising him when she gripped his collar, her eyes widening. "What about everyone else? Did you look for them? Please tell me you didn't just come for me. I never saw—"
Gren gripped her shoulders, willing her to stay focused. "They got out. The same way we came in."
Tracel breathed out and nodded. "Good." She paused as if thinking. "Wait… 'we'?"
"You've got your story; I've got mine. Home first." He pulled on her hand, tugging her towards the stairs. "Only one way out of here. Come on."
Gren ran up the steps, pulling Tracel along. He stopped on the steps and touched her arm, listening for voices before opening the door. The corridor remained silent. The rest of the house seemed just as quiet. Moving further into the hallway, he waved to Tracel to join him and watched for guards.
Tracel stepped up. Tripping on her skirt, she tumbled into the hallway and landed on her knees. "Ridiculous," she complained, scrambling to stand. "I put up with the likes of him, but I can't take a step without falling."
Gren grunted back his laugh as he helped her stand. "Think I need to stay with you from now on. Make sure you stop getting into trouble."
She clutched his arm, steadying herself as she cast him a surprised glance. Before he could ask what she thought he meant, she reached down to yank the trailing fabric from her skirt.
"My idiot footing aside, we need to keep moving," she said, pointing to the main staircase. "I don't know how you got in, but that's how they brought me up here." Without waiting for Gren, she hurried towards the stairs, following the railing and looking down to the floor below.
Gren followed behind, glancing towards the back stairs. Why did they suddenly seem like the better idea?
Tracel stared down the staircase. "Looks like it's clear. I don't hear anything and the doors to the courtyard are right there."
She pointed downwards, making the muscles in his back tense. When she stepped down, Gren pulled her to a stop, his fingers gripping hers tightly.
"What?" Her lips drew into a thin line.
"I don't trust it."
"Don't trust it? Why?"
Yes, Gren, explain why, he thought. Considering Aeley went down and nothing seems to have really changed since, just what are you doing? "I don't know why."
"But there's no one down there. You said we don't have time and this is a clear path. Look for an opening and make your next move—isn't that what you've told me over and over? Let's just go while we can." Yanking her hand from his, she rushed down the steps.
"So you choose now to listen to that advice?" Gren yelled as he followed. Looking around the staircase, he saw the wall had been blown apart, stone rubble covering the floor.
"Really? We're going to fight about this now, while we're—oh!" Tracel gripped the staircase railing. Teetering, she moved up to the step behind her.
Crashing into her, Gren gripped her shoulders. Leaning back to steady them both, he stared at the figure standing at the bottom of the stairs.
Allon stared up at them. His nose had been broken and his bruised face was caked with blood. He cradled his arm to his chest, pointing with his other hand to Tracel. "You! You little bitch of a menace." He growled, glancing at Gren and placing one foot onto the stairs. "And you. Suppose I should've paid you to stay out of here. Traitor." He took another step up the stairs.
He would take no more steps, Gren decided, stepping in front of Tracel. He pushed her back with his elbow, saying nothing when she moved up the stairs.
"Tired of hiding from your sister, yet?" Gren asked, considering his options. Weaponless, tired, broken, angry. Is it even worth effort? He leaned back and beckoned to Allon with both hands.
Allon laughed and stepped up once, and then again, leaving two steps between them.
Gren rushed forward when Allon raised his foot once more. Ramming his open palm against Allon's forehead, he stepped down and pushed. Allon flew back, sliding across the floor, yelping when his broken arm hit the stones. Running down the rest of the steps, Gren rushed to Allon. Bringing his foot down, he crushed Allon's broken limb under his heel. Allon howled, writhing and whimpering as he tugged on his shirt.
Gren drew his sword and slipped the tip under Allon's chin, snorting when Allon stopped struggling. "Not so tough now that it's just you." He twisted his wrist, the blade digging into Allon's skin. "Maybe I should just do us all the favour and—"
"Gren!"
Gren turned to find Aeley standing between two pillars. Grunting at her, he shifted his weight on Allon's arm.
Aeley bustled across the floor to his side. Turning into him, she held her lips near his ear. "Don't. Let me handle this. This is my responsibility. You do it, and High Council will peg you as a vigilante needing punishment." Her gaze bore into his. Her lips did not smile and her eyes echoed her command. She lifted her chin and shifted her gaze, staring past him to Tracel.
He understood her point, a subtle reminder of what he could lose. Gren looked down to Allon, twisting the sword. Turning to glance at Tracel from the corner of his eye, he moved back.
Aeley spun away. Bending down, she slapped Allon, the sound echoing around them. "You're done. I'm going to do what father should've done." Standing, she snapped her fingers. Two guards entered the hall from behind the pillars. Pulling Allon from the floor, they hauled him out of the hall, disappearing into the courtyard behind Aeley.
"Now what?" Tracel asked, moving to Gren's side.
Gren blinked at the question, searching for something smart to say. "I should get you home before you decide to take any more of my advice. Or at least before the rest of the house falls apart."
*~*~*
This was how every day should end, Gren mused. Leaning back, he lowered his shoulders, giving into the fingers kneading his skin. Except for the pulled muscles, he felt good. Tracel and the hostages had returned, alive and intact. Only Aeley
had lost men, three among the many who returned.
Closing his eyes, Gren leaned back further, pressing his head to Tracel's waist. She laughed, digging her thumbs into his shoulder blades and pushing him forward. For a moment, he felt like he had when they first met, her healer's hands drawing him into her.
"Aren't you lucky I came back?" she murmured. "This is the sum of our relationship: you hurting yourself and me putting you back together."
Gren chuckled, leaning forward when her hands slid up his neck, tugging on the skin and releasing. She was right, and he would not argue.
"Don't know what you would've done if you hadn't found me."
Gren cranked his neck to look up at her. "About that—what were you doing in that cell? The last I saw, he had his hands over you, and I wanted to cut them off. I was so sure he'd keep you close. Not just because he seemed to like you, but because he knew it would damn well taunt me. We weren't exactly friends when I worked for him."
Tracel's smile was lopsided. "I know. I saw your face. You would've killed him if I let you." She sighed, drawing her fingers through his hair. "He didn't lose interest on the way, either, or when we got there. He threw everyone else in the cells but had me sent to his room and locked the door."
Jumping up, Gren spun to face her. His muscles strained as he clenched his fists, the familiar ache returning and undoing Tracel's work. "What did he do?" Gripping her elbows, he shook her. "Did he hurt you? Should Aeley know? Did he—?"
"Shh." Tracel pressed a finger to his lips. "He tried. He thought he'd get his way—until I bit back." She smirked, touching Gren's naked chest. "The bruises on his face weren't from the attack. They were from me when I punched him."
"You? You hit him?"
Tracel nodded. "It seems I've learned a few things from you. Those times you insisted I know something about basic skill weren't a complete waste." She glanced away. "Of course, the fire poker just sort of came up…"
"Do I want to know?"
Tracel laughed, bowing her head and leaning into Gren. "He won't be showing off how endowed he thinks he is for a long while. I'm sure the scar will be permanent." She shrugged. "I told him to keep his pants on."
Caught between laughing and snorting, Gren wrapped his arms around her. She was full of more surprises than most of the people he knew and worth every ache. When she stepped away, he was disappointed.
"Apparently I was too much work so he had me thrown into a cell."
"I thought he'd kill you, especially if he found out about you."
"Oh, he knew. His hand went up my skirt enough times to check." She snickered. "He just didn't say anything. Just like when he told them to throw me into a cell. He was too embarrassed to say I'd hurt him."
Gren looked away. Had he over-reacted? Meeting Aeley made him wonder if he had misjudged people too much, but had he misjudged Tracel? No, he decided. That's something else completely different. There's more to it than that. Maybe he'd misjudged himself.
Tracel cleared her throat. "But it's over now and we need to get back to life as it was. Time to rebuild. And you're going to want to go off again." She patted his chest. "I think Aeley wants to hire you. She seems to like you. You should leave with her and get some work since the last job was such a disappointment."
Her smile disappeared as she turned and reached for the vial of healing oil. Gren watched her push the stopper in the vial, unsettled by her reaction. The last time she had been dismissive, they'd quarreled. She refused to say everything she thought. It's probably the same as what's on my mind. Stop being an idiot and just say them!
Catching her arm, Gren spun her back towards him. "Do you want me to?"
"What?"
"Do you want me to go with her?"
Rolling her eyes, Tracel looked away. She faced him again when he squeezed her wrist. "No, not really, but it's what you do. It's who you are. You've always defined yourself as being on your own, doing whatever you want." She shrugged. "I've been on my own my whole life. Why should I expect you to do any different?"
Please, let me keep my foot out of my mouth. Gren breathed in. "Because people change—because sometimes it takes almost losing someone to realize how messed up life is. How choices made for the right reasons can be completely wrong."
"Meaning what, exactly?" Tracel lifted a brow.
"Meaning that maybe I was the one wanting more than what we've got. Maybe I'm not as happy being on my own as I thought," Gren mumbled.
"But—but your rules—"
"I broke every single one of them trying to save you. And as far as I can see, the world isn't crashing down." Gren drew one finger through her hair, twisting strands around his knuckles. "They protect me, but without them, I can protect you. You're the reason why I came back at all. I just couldn't admit it."
"What are you saying?" Tracel whispered.
Sliding his arms along her back, Gren pulled her against him, pressing his forehead to hers. "That you don't have to settle for some guy who's here one day and gone the next. I'll stay if you want me to. Right here, with you. Maybe it's time this village has a permanent warrior, someone Aeley can trust. Maybe I'll even be nice to Willar."
"But what good does that do you? I'm with people most of the days, trying to help them. And I love living here, in this house. You love traveling! If you stay, you'd be coming home to the same place…" Tracel pushed away.
Gren looked around the room. Why was committing himself to her more difficult than he had expected? "I started traveling because I didn't have a family, didn't have a home. And I didn't stop because I never had a reason to. Until now."
Tracel hesitated, biting back the rest of her retort. "You're serious."
Gren laughed. "As serious as I've ever been. I'm thinking of ditching the old rules and coming up with some new ones. You could help… unless you have no interest in my new first rule: Tracel comes first, especially before my selfish—"
He finished the thought in silence as Tracel threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, moaning when her tongue sought his. He needed no other answer, returning her sense of urgency with his own. He had come back for her, his healer. He had gone after her, and in saving her, saved himself. Maybe life was not so cruel after all.
ROUND EIGHT
A LITTLE MAGIC
ANNABELLE KITCH
The gladiator pit stank of sweat and grime; the unfortunate result of too many bodies crowded together in one space. Half the men who stalked through the dim, dirty rooms were mangled, missing ears or eyes or bits of their noses. By day, they had something akin to freedom to move around, though more than a few hung back in their cells, watching the movement in the pit with wide, wild eyes. Above their flat ceiling, there was a dull roar of a crowd that had paid good money to see two grown men bloody each other up. Each time one of the gladiators fell, there was a large thump and dirt rained down from the ceiling as the audience cheered or booed, depending on who it was that had fallen.
Thrim stumbled along the dusty floor, feeling strangely naked. Many of the battle weary warriors stared at him with undisguised curiosity, even disdain. He knew why. Thrim was slender where they were strong, smooth where they were scarred. His bright eyes were those of a scholar. His tanned skin was that of a foreigner. Many of them had probably never seen a native of the Gillespie Mountains. What they must think of him.
Many probably assumed he was some sort of whore dumped on them to pacify those who longed for the touch of a woman but were denied it for fear that they might get a girl with child. Judging by the way the gladiators stared at him, Thrim knew he had no reason to worry. These men would sooner spit on him than take him.
Thrim longed for his book, the one possession he'd still had before being dumped in this place. Aside from healing remedies and prayers, it contained a few protective spells. How to cast a magic circle, turn your enemy's head into a pumpkin, that sort of thing. It was all he had left of the Academy. All his other books had long since been stolen. But the guards had decid
ed it was too dangerous to let him keep it. Clever on their part, unfortunate on Thrim's.
He shuffled into a small cell, scarcely as large as a closet, and cast his gaze about it dejectedly. He would be sleeping upon a stretched canvas cot, too big for Thrim's slim frame, that took up half the room. Tucked beneath it were two pots; one for pissing and one for washing. That was it. No lanterns, no books, nothing but a thin, woven blanket from which to draw comfort. Thrim felt a sudden, harsh pang of homesickness so powerful he had to stagger to the bed to sit down lest he drop to his knees where he stood.
This was stupid. He'd already mourned the loss of his home. He'd had a good six months on the road to do that. Whether he was a prisoner in a creaking cart along the road or a prisoner in a stinking gladiator pit, he was going to see the end of his days in a foreign land because he'd been stupid enough to go riding alone in the night between towns. He should have stayed at that inn. He should have let his professors catch him sneaking out after hours and endured their lecture rather than find out first hand why they were so strict about students riding alone at night. It turned out they were right. There really were bandits and slavers creeping about between towns after sundown.
He clenched his fists, glaring down at the ground. Something wound in tight, clenching like a vice around his head until tears sprang to the corners of his eyes. He sucked in a sharp breath and blinked, staring up at the ceiling of his cell. Unlike the majority of the pit, the individual cells were under the audience portion of the arena, so there was very little chance he was going to find himself with a face full of dirt. He had that to be grateful for, at least. In these days to come, he was going to have to learn to be grateful for small things.
It was only when Thrim felt reasonably confident that he wasn't going to embarrass himself that he became aware of a pair of eyes on him, focused with a sort of intensity that made Thrim instantly bristle. He turned slowly to see a stout gladiator hunched over in the cot across the dusty passage, his thick forearms resting on his knees. He had a wild look about him, like all of the gladiators. Too many white scars along his arms, his shoulders too tense for a man who should have been at rest, but unlike the others, he wasn't like an animal. Beneath the long locks of dark hair, his deep blue eyes shone with unmasked intelligence. Thrim wasn't certain whether to feel threatened or not. An intelligent man was twice as likely to get away with roughing someone up.
