The gladiators regarded the new arrivals with no sign of sympathy or camaraderie but disgust instead, as though they were no better than dung tracked in on the bottom of one’s boot. They wasted no time hurling taunts and insults at the new men. One big scarred brute spat in the face of the smallest of the new slaves, a short club-footed man.
“More bloody worms,” the bully growled.
Elyas ignored the abuse—he perceived well enough the way of things to know the only way to gain any respect here was to prove oneself in the pits. The cruelest of the gladiators were looking for any slightest provocation to abuse and humiliate the worms, apparently one of the few sources of amusement other than actual combat.
An old crone ladled scoops of slop into ceramic bowls, the whole process watched by a number of guards. Each man was given a scoop of the slop, which Elyas discovered to be a greasy type of porridge, along with a chunk of bread and cup of water.
The new arrivals weren’t afforded any space at the tables with the gladiators. The short man with the limp tried to sit down at the end of a bench with the others, but a gladiator angrily kicked him in the back and barked at him to remove himself, which he hurriedly did. The guards merely stood by, watching the episode with amusement but making no move to intervene.
Elyas and the other three were left to stand against the wall in a small spot of shade out of the blazing sun to scarf down their food. The porridge was cold and unsweetened, and a couple weeks prior, Elyas would have cast it away in disgust, but it tasted mighty good after days of little besides the moldy bread he’d eaten aboard the slave galley, and it was the first real sustenance he’d had since before the battle. In addition to whatever grain made up the bulk of the porridge, it contained beans and small shreds of meat. He finished his bowl, making sure to sponge up the last bits of gravy with the bread. The water was warm and tasted slightly metallic, but he gulped it down.
One of the other new arrivals, a lean man with reddish-brown hair and an aristocratic face behind his beard, tried a spoonful of his porridge, grimaced, and set it aside. He did eat his hunk of bread and drink his water. An angry welt marred the man’s cheek from where he’d tasted Shoat’s lash earlier.
“You’d best eat as much as you can,” Elyas said. “Keep your strength up.”
“To do what? Be sent to battle like beasts with tooth and nail? I’d rather starve.”
Elyas shrugged. “You heard that Dirich character. I doubt this lot will show any mercy if you are weak from lack of sustenance. All you can do now is hope to survive by playing along with the game.” Until an opportunity to escape presents itself.
The man sighed, but he took another spoonful. “You are right, my friend. I must keep the faith. What is your name?”
“Elyas.”
“Thank you, Elyas, for not letting me forget that the gods test us in ways beyond our ken. Call me Harlan.” The man gave a pained smile as though it took a considerable effort.
Elyas glimpsed a keen intelligence in Harlan’s hazel eyes. With his soft-looking hands, the man was perhaps a scribe or moneylender of some sort.
He may be the first to fall. He’s too soft for this and has neither the heart nor the desire to survive.
He found out the other two men were named Burge and Foyal. The former was a burly dark-skinned man who had been a soldier in the Ketanian army, originally from Donesea in the Olinost Isles. Foyal, the one who’d been kicked off the gladiator’s bench earlier, was a short man with a clubfoot, who had been a carpenter in Ammon Nor before being conscripted. Harlan said nothing of his past. In fact, he didn’t speak again, following their initial exchange.
Following dinner, the other gladiators resumed training in the courtyard, sparring with wooden blades and spears and shields. Shoat led the four worms to a small cell in the low-ceilinged building and locked them in together.
“Won’t we train as the others?” Burge asked.
Shoat shook his huge head. “Get yer beauty sleep, worms. You’ll be needin’ what little strength you’ve got for later on. The choice cuts o’ meat will be separated from the offal tonight.”
Elyas didn’t know what he meant by that, but he was afraid he’d find out soon enough. The four of them were too cramped to be able to stretch out or lie down. Eventually, the long day took its toll, and Elyas’s eyes grew heavy. He leaned back against the iron bars of the cell, and after a few moments, his head drooped to his chest as he nodded off.
Thus began Elyas’s new life as a slave in the infamous Fighting Pits of Leciras, known for brutal gladiatorial combat the world over.
Chapter 17
Sianna awoke to a scream splitting the night. She sat up in bed with a startled jolt, her heart thudding rapidly in her chest.
“What—” At first, she thought the scream had been an element from her vaguely remembered nightmare, but then it came again—a cry from outside, on the castle grounds, followed by the distinctive ring of steel on steel she was quite familiar with from the training yard.
She slid from beneath her covers and walked to the window, clutching her silk nightgown around her. Chill air flowed in, a reminder that winter was fast approaching. The flagstones, once she stepped off the plush rug, were ice cold beneath her bare feet, the cold shock helping to clear her thoughts from the vestiges of the disturbing dream.
Sianna leaned forward, the rough stone edge of the windowsill digging into her belly, until she could see a portion of the walls and bailey below. Fire shone in the darkness from torches and warming braziers positioned along the walls, and silhouettes were rushing about. The ruddy light glinted on naked steel. Two silhouettes were struggling upon the wall, and she gasped when a shiny sword ran one man through, his cry a brief wail of agony before he slumped to the ground.
The killer looked around a moment as if choosing his next target, and a cold stab of fear clutched Sianna’s stomach when the realization finally sank in that the castle was under attack.
Iris roused in her small bed against the wall. “Sianna?” Her voice was groggy with sleep. “Come away from there—you’ll catch a chill.”
“We’re under attack, Iris.” Her hands clutched the stone windowsill as she stood on tiptoe, striving to see more below, yet she couldn’t see any further movement. Only sounds of fighting and dying reached her ears, growing more distant by the moment.
“What did you say?” Iris scooted to the edge of her bed, eyes wide and blinking away sleep.
A flash of light exploded down in the bailey, followed by a rumbling boom like thunder a moment later. Magic! And our mages rode out with the army.
“I said the castle is under attack.” Sianna didn’t know how she sounded so calm, but the words broke her paralysis. She ran to the wardrobe and rooted around in the bottom drawer until her hand closed upon the hilt of her short sword, a reassuring comfort.
Iris stoked the hearth, brightening the room a bit. “Gods… what do we do? If we’re under attack, that means you…”
“Am a target, most likely,” Sianna finished. She was already pulling out the boyish clothes she trained in—tunic, breeches, and leather jerkin, along with wool socks and a pair of soft leather boots.
“You can’t mean to go down there!” The color drained out of Iris’s face. “Sianna, no! You’ll be killed!”
“I’m just preparing for whatever happens. You’d better get dressed, Iris.” Sianna pulled off her nightgown and donned the snug cocoa-colored breeches, tan tunic, and dark-green jerkin. After lacing the jerkin, she belted the short sword around her slim waist. Seeing herself in the mirror, she thought she looked like one of the king’s rangers. She quickly knotted her hair behind her head in a tight bun.
Iris was standing there in her smallclothes, fussing indecisively over what to wear. Sianna knew her handmaiden didn’t have anything in her wardrobe but dresses, as that was what a proper lady wore.
A thunderous knock sounded on the door, making both women jump. Iris stood there like a frightened rabbit, half
naked and shivering, her eyes wide.
Sianna drew the short sword but nearly dropped it, for her hand was trembling so badly. She took a couple steps toward the door, imagining it crashing open in an explosion of splinters and some evil brutes bursting in with bloody axes to chop them to pieces.
“Princess? Are you in there?” The voice was muffled by the thick door, but Sianna gave a relieved sigh upon hearing Sir Colm’s voice.
“I’m here, Sir Colm! What is happening?” She felt stupid for asking the question the moment it was out of her mouth.
“The castle is under attack. I fear we must get you to safety—we are overmatched.”
Sianna glanced at Iris, who was still standing there half naked, frozen in shock. “Just a moment.” She gripped Iris by the shoulders and shook her. “Iris! Get dressed—now.”
The handmaiden blinked then quickly pulled on a gray woolen dress.
A sensible choice. “Get some practical walking shoes, too.” She went over and unbolted the door.
Colm stepped inside and bolted it behind himself immediately. He was breathing heavily, and his surcoat had a spatter of blood on it. His sword was in his hand, stained with crimson, and a shallow gash leaked blood on the side of his balding head. He did a double take when he saw Sianna armed and dressed appropriately. “Good lass,” he said with a faint smile. He nodded approvingly at Iris’s dress as she was slipping on her sturdiest shoes.
“They have a mage, Princess. Assassins simply appeared in the bailey by magic and started slaughtering our guards. I could tell they are Nebaran from their accents. And their leader…” He shook his head as though he didn’t know what to say.
“Who’s their leader?” Sianna asked.
“A fiend—some witch with black wings. The rumors are true. Emperor Ignatius has demons and black sorcerers fighting for him, even as he seeks to destroy all mages throughout Ketania.”
Iris stood up, wringing her hands nervously.
Colm stood straighter. “Right, then. Grab your cloaks, ladies. We have to get you out of the castle and hide in the woods for now. I don’t trust that there aren’t spies willing to sell out all the castle’s secrets for coin.”
“We can’t leave without Mother,” Sianna said resolutely.
Colm exhaled heavily, and his face grew grave. “Princess… I-I’m sorry. I led a contingent of guardsmen to the royal chambers at once, but the queen…” He blanched and had trouble meeting her eyes. He grasped her small hand in his callused one. “I was too late. They… they killed her, those whoresons. I’ve failed her… I’ve failed you and the king.” He looked down at the floor.
Sianna didn’t know where her calm was coming from—her mother, perhaps. She always had a cool head in a crisis. She smacked Colm lightly across the cheek, and the old knight took a step back, startled, as his eyes met hers.
He’s focused again. Good. “You haven’t failed me, Sir Colm. You are about to lead us to safety.”
“Aye.” He cleared his throat and stood straighter. “Come on, Princess. You too, Iris. We must go at once.”
Colm threw the bolt back and peered into the hallway. He listened for a long moment to the sounds of steel clashing somewhere down the stairwell. “It’s clear for the moment. Let’s go. We make for the third floor then take the servant’s stairs down to the kitchen and out the back of the keep, through the training yard and out the postern gate. If the stables are clear, we’ll see about getting horses.”
Then they were running down the tower stairs. Sianna nearly dropped her sword at one point until Colm told her to sheathe it before she inadvertently stabbed one of them. They went down one level then another before reaching the third floor.
A hard-faced man in dark clothing suddenly lunged from the doorway into the stairwell. Iris shrieked and stumbled into Sianna, knocking her against the wall and nearly causing her to lose her footing on the stairs.
Colm responded instantly. He sprang forward, sword slashing out. His blade slammed against the assassin’s. The two exchanged a couple of blows, slashing and parrying. Two more enemy assassins came up behind the first, and then two of them were pressing Colm back into the stairwell.
The old knight slashed one of the men on the arm, but he in turn got hit on the shoulder. He grunted in pain as the blade cleaved through his mail.
“Princess, go back up and try to escape across the roof.” His voice was labored as he tried to fight off the two men.
No, I won’t leave you.
Sianna, standing a couple steps up from the struggling men, saw an opportunity. She drew her sword and stabbed the closest Nebaran in the exposed flank. Her strike wasn’t as sure as she would’ve wished, but it pierced the links of mail and drove a handbreadth into the man’s side. The Nebaran cried out and lurched sideways, her blade pulling free, and crashed into his partner battling Colm.
The old knight saw the opening and ran his longsword through his foe’s chest. The man fell, and Colm’s next strike hacked into the neck of the man Sianna had wounded. He stepped over the dying men and finished the third man after a few exchanges.
“Come on, then! We can’t tarry.” Colm grimaced as he probed the wound in his shoulder, but he led the way down the corridor at a brisk jog.
Sianna fought down the fear and worry warring inside her. Instead, she strove to see or hear if more attackers were lying in wait ahead.
Be strong—this is what I’ve been training for. I’m my father’s daughter.
They made it to the servant stairs without encountering any more assassins. Cautiously, they descended, but the kitchen was clear when they reached it. The large room was warm from the residual heat of the big brick ovens and still smelled faintly of roasting meat and onions from the dinner meal. They were creeping toward the door when a soft clunk sounded to their right. The trio froze, waiting for assassins to charge in from the shut door leading to the dining hall. But none came.
Colm walked quietly toward the closed door of the larder, sword raised. With one swift motion, he yanked the door open and stuck the tip of his sword through. A startled yelp came from within. The knight reached in with his free hand and grabbed a handful of flour-stained tunic and heaved a startled kitchen boy from the larder.
“Quiet, boy,” Colm hissed. “You can’t stay there—assassins are about.”
“I-I know, sir. W-what do we do? They’ll kill us all!” His eyes took in the two women, particularly Sianna, and he gulped.
“Shut your mouth and do exactly as I say. We are fleeing the castle, and if you want to live, you’ll come with us.”
The boy’s cheeks flushed red, and he seemed to pull himself together.
Colm nodded after a moment and turned back to Sianna and Iris. “Right, ladies. We go out this door and across the training yards to the stables. There we get horses and ride to the postern gate. If we can’t make the stables, we run straight for the gate. Run and don’t stop for anything, you hear me?”
Sianna and Iris nodded silently, her handmaiden clutching her free hand in a death grip. The kitchen boy also nodded. Sianna sheathed her sword so she could run faster and not risk stumbling and falling on her blade.
Colm listened at the door then eased it open and stepped out, sword bared. He looked around a moment before waving them through.
Sianna stepped into a scene straight out of her recent nightmares. Fires burned around the perimeter of the training yards, a storage shed aflame along with the carriage house. Whether the fires had been caused by the magical explosion she’d witnessed earlier or by simple arson, she couldn’t say.
Iris’s strangled shriek drew her attention closer, specifically to a tangle of corpses lying a few paces from the kitchen door. Sianna immediately recognized Sephila, head of the scullery, a friendly gossip who had a young family in the city. The woman’s eyes bulged in astonishment, her chest a bloody ruin. A stableboy, Gery, lay sprawled out with a slit throat. She also knew Narder’s face, a young guard with a ready smile who lay with his entra
ils strewn across three paces of ground, face twisted in a rictus of death. With an iron self-control she didn’t know she possessed, she fought down her roiling gut and gathered her wits about her.
“Oh gods,” the kitchen boy muttered, hand clamped over his mouth. He turned and retched.
“Go, now,” Colm hissed.
Sianna squeezed Iris’s hand firmly and pulled, rousing her friend from her horrified trance, then they were racing across the training yards toward the stables. Smoke and the smell of blood and offal filled her nose.
“Rafe! You men, to me! Defend the queen!” Colm waved at a trio of guardsmen rounding the corner of the keep and heading in their general direction.
Sianna was relieved to see Rafe had been spared the initial carnage. He and the other two looked as though they’d been roused from their racks in the barracks, slightly dazed expressions on their faces. The other two guards, men she recognized though she didn’t know their names, followed on Rafe’s heels as the three ran toward them.
“Watch out!” Iris shrieked, pointing behind the men.
Six Nebarans appeared out of the shadows near the stables fifty paces ahead. Two of the assassins had loaded crossbows. They lazily raised their bows and loosed. A dark-haired guardsman beside Rafe stumbled, and blood burst from his mouth. He lurched a couple more strides before falling with a quarrel jutting from the center of his back. The other quarrel thudded into a training dummy off to Sianna’s right a couple paces away.
“You killed a training dummy, fool!” One of the men laughed. His voice had a thick Nebaran accent.
“Forget the horses—to the postern gate! Run!” Colm gave Sianna a gentle shove in the back and shouted for Rafe and the other man, a stocky bearded fellow, to hurry. They were halfway across the archery lanes when Rafe and the other guard caught up with them. Iris was gasping for breath, and Sianna’s hand ached from her friend’s panicked grip.
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