The Way of Pain

by Gregory Mattix

  Upon their return to the villa, Elyas and Harlan and four newer gladiators were forced to fill large barrels with sand then struggled to wrestle them into the back of a wagon. After that was completed, the six of them donned harnesses much like a team of mules and hauled the wagon out of the compound. Once they got the wagon moving and fell into a rhythm, it wasn’t difficult, especially descending the long, sloping drive leading from the villa gates to the dirt road below. Dirich and Shoat sat on the drover’s seat, and several mounted guards rode in loose formation around them.

  Elyas wondered how they would stop the wagon if it began picking up too much momentum. He quickly learned, as the men were forced to throw their weight into the harnesses to keep the wagon from barreling out of control, which used a whole different set of muscles than pulling did. All the men were puffing from the effort by the time they reached the level road. Dirich directed them to resume pulling, which they did for perhaps a half mile, where they halted at the base of a gradually sloping hill. Shoat released them from their harnesses, and they took a welcome break, sharing water from a pair of skins Dirich tossed them.

  After a few minutes of rest, Shoat attached a long, thick rope to the frame of the wagon. He positioned the men atop the hill and instructed them to pull on the rope while remaining stationary, using primarily their arm and back strength to haul the wagon up the incline. Elyas’s arms and shoulders were burning from the effort in no time, and he had trouble gripping the rope with only the last two fingers on his injured hand. He was cognizant of his splinted fingers and careful not to reinjure them.

  Harlan eventually collapsed, falling onto his backside with a cry as the rope slid free of his grip, tearing the skin of his palms open. Elyas grunted at the increased strain, the wagon beginning to roll backward while the other men cursed profusely at Harlan. Elyas planted his feet and heaved for all he was worth. The wagon’s backward momentum was arrested, then he and the four others managed to pull the wagon closer once more. Shoat laid into Harlan with his whip, and he quickly returned to his place at the rope, lending his flagging strength.

  After several more agonizing minutes, the wagon was in position at the top of the hill although the rope was stained dark with fresh blood from many skinned palms. A pair of the guards placed large stones behind the rear wheels so that the wagon wouldn’t roll free.

  The men immediately slumped to the ground in the scarce shade of an olive tree when given the opportunity. Following a lunch break for some cold porridge out of a pot, stale bread, and a juicy orange apiece, they returned to the rope. Shoat gave the wagon a mighty shove, then they were struggling to ease its descent back down the incline in the same manner as they’d hauled it up.

  They heaved the wagon up the hill and eased it back down twice more before Dirich deemed their toils sufficient for the day. Elyas, dripping with sweat and hands raw and bloody, was thankful to return to the harness to pull the wagon back to the Pasikos estate. With the remainder of their strength, the men heaved it up the path and through the gates into the courtyard. By the time they were finished, Elyas’s legs felt rubbery, and he nearly collapsed. To his credit, Harlan had managed to remain on his feet since tasting Shoat’s whip that morning.

  By the time he was taken to see Edara following dinner, he was sore in ways he hadn’t experienced thus far. Harlan and the other men accompanied him to receive a balm and bandages for their skinned palms. She applied some to the raw lash wounds on Harlan’s back also.

  The healer seemed harried that day and didn’t engage Elyas in any small talk. She did look pleased at his progress and pronounced his fingers on the mend. The swelling had gone down and the color improved, looking less like swollen plums and more like ordinary flesh again. She renewed his splints and bandage and made him drink more of the foul potion before he left.

  A couple more days passed, and Elyas’s fingers were back to normal. They were a bit stiff and sore but quickly loosened up after some stretching and exercising.

  His half-baked plans to jump the guards en route to visit the healer never panned out, as he was kept under close supervision. His hopes of escape slipped further away until he settled on waiting until he proved himself in the pits and earned a name and the gladiator title. He would receive his own room, along with a bit of leniency, or so he hoped. Word eventually reached the men that in a week’s time, a formal game would take place, and he would have the chance to earn his name and become an actual gladiator.

  He returned to his weapon training, thankful to not have to pull the loaded wagon around the countryside as he had each day while injured. That grueling task only surfaced occasionally when men were injured and unable to train, and an unlucky few were chosen to fill out the team. Elyas’s weapon training began taking up a proportionally larger part of the day rather than the exercise portions, for which he was pleased.

  One day, a commotion erupted at the edge of the training yard, where the men were all sparring with wooden swords and shields. A fight had broken out. One of the veterans, a large brute named Caul, had taken offense to an incidental blow to the groin while facing off with one of the younger gladiators. Caul was in the process of beating the younger man bloody when Shoat’s whip cracked the air beside his ear, breaking up the scuffle. Two guards had to carry the younger man off to see Edara following that incident.

  Elyas studied Caul for a moment. He’d heard early on that the reigning champion of the house was a mean bastard with a temper to avoid at all costs. Caul was a large man, a couple inches taller and probably even a couple score pounds heavier than Elyas. His deeply tanned body was a mass of white scars covering thick slabs of muscle. He kept his head shaved, a dent evident on one side of his skull where he’d been on the receiving end of a mace in an early pit fight, according to rumor. The blow hadn’t killed him but only served to make him meaner.

  Caul noticed Elyas looking and glared at him for a moment before Elyas looked away, not wanting any trouble with the man if he could help it. Pointless scuffles would not gain him any leniency in the compound. He had to be patient and bide his time.

  That evening on the way to the baths, Elyas’s curiosity got the better of him when he spotted Shoat loitering near the baths with a ceramic jug in one hand.

  “Why are you called Shoat?” he asked the brute.

  Shoat might have been a hard taskmaster, but he was fair, and Elyas couldn’t hate the man for doing his job, much like any military drill sergeant following orders to whip recruits into shape. He didn’t bother trying to hide the jug from Elyas’s view, simply smiling at the question and revealing a mouthful of broken and missing teeth.

  “Master named me when I earned my freedom.” He tapped a dirty fingernail on the collar around his neck, a reminder of his fighting days.

  “You earned your freedom by fighting?” Elyas had heard of favored gladiators being given the honor of winning their freedom in the pits but had assumed that was simply a hopeful rumor to inspire the men.

  Shoat nodded. “I was named Grub, but once I was free, I was weaned from the teat, Master says, so he named me Shoat. This good name, eh?” He eyed Elyas with narrowed eyes as if daring him to disagree.

  Elyas nodded. “Aye, very kind of him.”

  Shoat grunted, apparently satisfied with his answer.

  Elyas finished bathing and waited for Harlan. When they were finished, Shoat locked them in their cage for another night.

  He couldn’t help but wonder how many years and bouts Shoat had to survive to gain his freedom. The man’s age was hard to judge, for he kept himself in as good of fighting shape as the rest of the men, yet Elyas guessed he must be nearing forty summers.

  I can’t wait even one more summer to try to escape.

  ***

  The next night, Elyas woke to the sounds of four new recruits being dragged from their cell in the middle of the night, as he himself had been a couple weeks past. He’d seen the worms earlier that day and hadn’t been impressed. A half-starved and fearfu
l-looking lot, he didn’t expect many to return. Come the morn, the cell remained empty, and a young slave boy was sent to mop it out. Dirich was in a foul mood that day, so Elyas kept his head down, although he was unsurprised the group hadn’t returned from the pit.

  Harlan and he continued to stick together, spending their free time talking about their prior lives. Elyas had lots of tales to tell about his and Taren’s journey, about the wyvern he had hunted nearly a year and a half past, and then he even retold some of Wyat’s old war stories. Harlan was a rapt listener, telling few of his own stories, always vague about his past, obviously either ashamed or afraid to say too much. He did seem particularly interested in Elyas’s stories of fighting in the Ketanian army, even seeming to shed a tear at the recounting of King Clement’s and his son’s deaths in that ill-fated battle. He listened raptly as Elyas described his fight with Nesnys.

  “No good can come of being singled out by that evil bitch,” Harlan said. “Unless it’s to take the opportunity to get close enough to put a sword through her black heart.”

  Elyas thought on that recommendation. He’d seen nothing of Nesnys since she’d defeated him and ordered him shipped off to slavery. A part of him was glad for her absence, but that dark part he tried to ignore held a festering yearning to lay eyes on her once more. He tried to tell himself the reason was to take Harlan’s advice and try to strike a telling blow, not only for himself, but for his kingdom, should he be fortunate enough to get the opportunity and follow through by killing her.

  When the day of the gladiator games finally arrived, Elyas was eager to prove himself. Finally, I’ll gain some respect and a name for myself. I’ll be a worm no longer.

  That day, they were given a break from their routines, engaging in light sparring after the customary morning jog. They ate well for lunch, being given plates of meat and cheese and vegetables for a change, and drank their fill of water.

  Dirich joined the men beneath the awning as they were finishing their lunch. “This evening, there will be a fight, as I’m sure you are all aware. These two”—he gestured at Elyas and Harlan, seated at one end of a table—“will get the opportunity to join the brotherhood. The rest of you will have your own bouts lined up. Our champion, Caul the Crusher, will battle Steelcut of House Gornella in a fight to submission only.”

  He was momentarily drowned out by boos and jeers although that seemed the expected response. Caul, however, looked pleased. Steelcut was evidently an opponent of some renown, and the brute was looking forward to the chance for more glory. Elyas wasn’t surprised at the submission-only rule, due to the amount of training and coin spent on top-tier gladiators and champions. Losing them in routine fights to the death would prove a substantial loss to each house. Only during special events where the royal House Isiratu participated did the top fighters compete until death.

  The same wasn’t true for the lower-tier fights. Elyas would have to kill his opponent to be welcomed into the ranks of the brotherhood. Such was how the chaff was winnowed out.

  “Glory to House Pasikos!” Dirich bellowed once the muttering died down.

  The men cheered heartily in reply, for the fights were what they lived for—gaining glory and recognition and a break from the drudgery of daily training. The gladiator who had been beaten by Caul several days past, Rihat, sat near them. He kept his eyes down the whole time, humiliated after his earlier beating. But when Caul wasn’t looking, Elyas noticed the heat of his hateful gaze aimed at the champion.

  The rest of the day dragged on, then they were released to their cells to rest and prepare for the games that night.

  Chapter 25

  Sianna walked beside the monster hunter Creel at the head of their group, listening attentively as he spoke of events in the southlands in more detail than the broad scope she had gleaned the previous evening—events she ought to be well versed in, as queen. She tried not to dwell on what would have been an absurd thought mere days prior.

  During a lull in the conversation, she took a minute to look over her newfound companions.

  Such an unusual group Sol has led me to.

  Rafe and Iris walked just behind Sianna and Creel, the guard ever mindful of her handmaiden’s injury as she limped along. Even though Rafe was hurt as well, he went out of his way to assist Iris, apparently relieved he could still be of aid to someone since he himself had required tending. Why he should be ashamed of perceived weakness after saving their lives, Sianna couldn’t fathom. She hid a smile at Iris’s acceptance of the big man’s offered arm from time to time, her chilly demeanor and initial dislike for the guard having obviously softened during their ordeal.

  By consensus, the group stopped a moment to rest. She gratefully took a drink from the water skin Creel offered her. Taren and Mira joined them after a moment, the quiet monk a solid presence, seemingly tireless throughout their travel. Sianna’s eyes met Taren’s, and the young man smiled at her. Feeling her cheeks warming, she smiled in return and looked away, cursing herself as a fool.

  I am queen now! I’m not some simpering maid any longer, blushing like a schoolgirl at a handsome boy’s smile. I must act strong, for my people’s sake.

  She watched as the final member of their party, Ferret, came trudging up behind them, and Sianna felt a bit uneasy at her presence. The girl had remained cloaked and wrapped in cloth although her hands were free, displaying her oddly jointed metal fingers. Her violet eyes glowed like magical crystals. She rarely spoke or reacted to anything, but Sianna had seen how deadly she was in combat with her unnatural strength and toughness, and she was grateful Ferret was on their side.

  “How far to Llantry, Rafe?” Iris asked, breaking the silence.

  The guardsman removed his helm and scratched his head. “I think we should make it there in—”

  Rafe was cut off when a bright spark suddenly struck his helm, cradled against his chest. A gout of flame exploded, launching the guard into the bushes. Iris was flung away as well, landing hard on her backside with a startled cry. The rest of the group all jumped in shock, looking around in astonishment.

  Creel was instantly on guard, shielding Sianna with his body as he scanned for enemies, his sword in hand more quickly than she could process.

  A sizzling sound came from behind her. Creel spun around in front of Sianna just as a bolt of fire streaked out of the sky to impact his chest. The blast knocked him off his feet, and Sianna stumbled and fell as well.

  A figure soared upon great dark wings out of the clear morning sky, skimming the tops of the trees and holding a flaming bow. Sianna’s heart skipped a beat as she thought Nesnys had finally found her, but then a second avian figure appeared and joined the first. They flew closer, and she realized these beings looked to be half bird and half woman. As she watched helplessly, they drew back their flaming bowstrings. Fiery arrows appeared upon the strings, aimed in their direction.

  “Mira, don’t!” Taren shouted.

  He struggled to free himself from the monk’s grasp, then he slammed into Sianna, tackling her into the bushes just as she was clambering back to her feet. Branches snapped and tore at her as they tumbled, rolling over a couple times, their fall cushioned by a thick layer of fallen leaves. Taren lay partway atop her, their faces inches apart for a moment before he rolled off. He gently took her arm and helped her crawl behind the bole of a large oak tree.

  A burning arrow crackled into the underbrush where they had just been. A puff of ground exploded outward, and leaves and branches smoldered but fortunately were too damp to ignite due to the recent snow.

  Shouts sounded, and motion was visible through the brush as her remaining companions sought to take cover and defend themselves.

  Taren crouched beside her, regarding her in concern. “Sianna, are you well?”

  “Yes, fine.” She was a bit short of breath from their tumble but considered herself fortunate compared to Creel and Rafe. “Thank you.”

  He nodded and leaned over to peer around the tree trunk, a res
training hand on her arm. “Stay down. We’ll do our best to fight them off.”

  She grasped his arm, staying him a moment. “What are those things?”

  “I’m not sure, but we’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Taren?” Mira called out, worry in her voice.

  “I’m fine, Mira,” he replied. “Take cover.”

  Sianna got to her hands and knees and moved up beside Taren so she also could see around the trunk of the oak.

  ***

  Mira watched from her position, crouched behind a large tree stump, as four of the winged creatures circled over the clearing. Creel and Rafe were down. Taren and Sianna were safe for the moment. Iris was wounded but would have been little help even if well. Ferret stood motionless just beneath the eaves of the trees, staring at their winged attackers.

  That leaves Ferret and me. And no way to get at them unless they descend.

  After some unspoken agreement, the four creatures descended to the clearing, soaring down gracefully. Two of them alighted on avian feet, while two others remained hovering overhead, fiery arrows nocked and covering their companions, black-feathered wings pumping steadily and creating a swirling breeze.

  The lead creature had golden-brown hair in a long, braided ponytail to her waist. She had cinnamon-colored eyes and wore ornate plate armor from the waist up, the metal looking as though it had been blackened in some great inferno. Her lower body was covered in black feathers matching her wings, save for her golden-scaled lower legs and taloned feet. “Come forth, mortal queen. You shall not be harmed.” Her voice was musical yet slightly discordant, like an instrument out of tune.

  “Don’t do it, Your Majesty,” Creel called, his voice pained. He groaned and picked himself up from the brush he had fallen in. His leather cuirass had a black scorched hole in the center of his chest, and his flesh hadn’t fared much better. He grimaced and staggered forward, sword in hand.