He needn’t have worried. The guards didn’t seem overly concerned with any of them. A few, in fact, were surreptitiously passing around a wineskin. Only a few men looked like seasoned veterans. The rest must have been conscripts, both old and young, and clearly uncomfortable in their livery and armor.
If I was still a sergeant of the Watch, I’d have those men’s arses for such indolence, times being what they are.
Once through the gates, they walked together in a group again. Creel guided them along the Royal Way, the broad avenue that extended the city’s entire length, continuing up the hill and eventually culminating at the castle gates. Two- and three-story buildings lined the road, a healthy mix of shops, restaurants, inns, and taverns. Just before the main market, he turned left toward the bay and took a winding street that emptied onto a square overlooking the harbor below. He could see the distant glow of lanterns on larger ships anchored farther out on the water.
Then he saw their destination just to his right, its façade providing an impressive view over the bay. A shingle hung over the door with a proud warrior standing with one foot resting upon the chest of a slain giant, sword stuck in its chest. The Giantslayers Inn, the sign read.
Creel’s throat was suddenly dry, and he felt nervous about opening that door. He hadn’t set foot in the inn for several years. His old friend Brom would understand his absence, and they’d catch up on old times without missing a beat. But Rada, on the other hand… She could be prickly at times, and as was usual for their on-again, off-again relationship, he hadn’t departed on the best of terms.
Someone cleared their throat, and he looked over to see Ferret’s glowing purple eyes staring at him. He wondered for a brief moment how she managed to produce such a sound.
“Is this the place, Dak? What are we waiting for?”
Creel let out a long breath. “Nothing. Let’s go.”
He gripped one of the heavy bronze handles, sculpted to resemble a warhammer, and pulled the sturdy oak door open. He stepped aside, holding the door for his companions to enter, and the sounds and smells of home washed over him.
Chapter 26
The night finally arrived with a slight chill in the air, which excited Elyas nearly as much as did the prospect of fighting and gaining acceptance to the ranks of the gladiators.
So there is such a thing as seasonal change in this wretched arsehole of the world.
He tried to think of home and how the leaves would be falling from the trees, of needing to gather a comfortable supply of firewood for the cold nights and sealing the cracks in the house with pitch against the bitter winters. Here, in the far reaches of Nebara near the Azure Sea, winter was but an abstract idea. Days were still scorchingly hot, the nights at least bringing some relief. But a cold snap had arrived, unusual for this part of the empire, from what he’d gleaned from muttered conversations.
His nostalgic thoughts brought back the harsh reality that he’d never see home again, which hit him like a gut punch. His father was dead, his home destroyed. Only the gods knew where Taren had gotten to, but he prayed his cousin was well.
The men had been issued rough tunics and jerkins this night, and Elyas delighted at the chill on his bare arms. He left his jerkin unfastened in the front, for the cool air made him feel rejuvenated—more alive than ever during the daytime’s stifling heat.
He sat in the back of a large uncovered wagon, chained up with the other fourteen men around him. All but he and Harlan were gladiators, victors of past battles and accepted to the brotherhood. They boasted and talked amongst themselves, but Elyas knew there was always a seed of fear beneath the bluster, for they were destined to fall in the pits one day. Such was the life of a gladiator. Even in the submission bouts, often in the rage of battle, men had been known to be cut down, and accidental strikes could be crippling or fatal.
“Hope you two maggots got yer fill of buggering each other,” growled Udarr, one of Caul’s cronies. He looked from Elyas to Harlan with an amused leer. “When the night’s through, you’ll only have flies tonguing yer arseholes.”
This brought a rumble of gruff laughter, which Elyas ignored. Harlan stared blankly out into the darkness, and Elyas wondered if his friend had even heard Udarr. They’d heard enough jeers and insults hurled at them over the past weeks. The time to prove themselves worthy as fellow members of the brotherhood was upon them, and the verbal and physical abuse should slacken, if not disappear altogether. Another group of recruits were due any day, and they would become the focus of that unwanted attention.
Survive or die—either way, their words will mean nothing after tonight.
He briefly wondered if his friend would survive the night. Harlan had been unusually quiet and introspective even for him the past couple days, and Elyas hoped he was focused on the task at hand. With his quickness, Harlan had a good chance of emerging victorious, provided his bout didn’t devolve into a grappling or strength contest, in which case he was likely done for.
A roaring soon reached his ears over the clopping of hooves and crunch of gravel beneath the wagon wheels. They approached an area situated between a pair of stony bluffs, the sides carved out to form a theater of sorts, with rows of stone steps serving as seating to either side. The arena was bathed in orange firelight, shining on the faces of the boisterous crowd cheering and celebrating in the stands. Wine and ale appeared to be flowing plentifully, from what Elyas glimpsed. A troupe of dancers and minstrels performed on the pit floor, getting the crowd riled up while the gladiators gathered and prepared.
The instant the wagon stopped, Shoat was there to unlock their chains. Dirich waved them out of the wagon, directing them into one of a series of low stone buildings that served as holding pens. The men crammed inside, a dozen house guards loitering outside the door. A pair of slave boys lugged several heavy chests inside filled with weapons and armor. Water skins were passed around, and several gladiators stepped outside under guard to relieve themselves, Elyas included. He glimpsed three other buildings teeming with gladiators, indicating four houses were participating in these games.
Upon his return, he helped himself to weapons and piecemeal armor from the chests, with Dirich directing everyone on how to outfit themselves. Elyas couldn’t figure out if there was any reason to how he outfitted each man or if it was at random, but soon each of them was ready, awaiting his moment of glory.
Dirich departed, and Shoat remained with the men. Long minutes passed while the noises of the crowds subsided, becoming an anxious rumbling. Elyas said a quick silent prayer to Anhur to grant him favor in the pit.
Dirich poked his head in the room abruptly. “Shoat, get the worms ready. They’re up first, fighting as a pair.”
Elyas was surprised at that, but having paired fights lined up wasn’t unusual. He’d been expecting each to be on his own although they’d trained in team fighting. This would be good since the two had developed a camaraderie and seemed skilled at predicting each other’s moves. A couple of the gladiators wished them luck, but many ignored them or hurled one final insult.
The two of them wore open-faced helms and leather cuirasses with their traditional short breeches cut off at midthigh. They also wore bracers and greaves of boiled leather, along with the sandals they were accustomed to. Already, the boiled leather was chafing against Elyas’s bare skin. He was armed with a battle-axe and shield, Harlan a short sword and buckler. Normally, he would have preferred the sword, but Wyat had trained him with an axe as well, and he’d only grown more proficient in recent days.
Shoat ensured their readiness then gripped their arms and hustled them out the door. Dirich waved them to follow, and a moment later, they stepped onto the packed dirt of the arena floor.
This pit wasn’t belowground as the first had been. Instead, the theater rose up above them, although the effect was much the same, the feeling of confinement with the hollering crowd looking down at them. A large bonfire burned at each corner of the floor, and torches lined the aisles in the
stands. He marveled at the numbers of spectators—a thousand or more people loomed above the arena floor. The center section of the front row to one side had an awning raised overhead and was screened off at the rear to separate the nobles from the masses. He glimpsed Lord Pasikos and his consort along with a number of nobles from the other houses and their distinguished guests.
Put up a pitiful performance here, and my name will forever be met with scorn. A moment later, he realized the foolishness of his concern. Ha—put up a pitiful performance, I’ll be dragged off by my ankles, blood watering the dirt.
Dirich spoke, drawing his attention back to the slave master. “This is your chance to shine. I’ve seen you two at practice and know what you can do. Cover each other’s backs and fight as a team. If the gods favor you, you shall step out of the pit members of the brotherhood and worms no longer.” Dirich nodded and slapped each of them hard on the back then stepped back into the line of slave masters, henchmen, and guards.
Two other men strode onto the floor at the opposite end of the pit. They were both burly men although neither was quite the size of Elyas. Both wore similar attire: piecemeal boiled leather, one man with a broadsword and shield, the other a pair of short swords.
An old man with close-cropped white hair and beard stepped onto the floor, dressed in colorful robes. He held some kind of brass horn to his mouth, and when he spoke, it amplified his voice, causing it to boom and reverberate off the stands and hillsides.
“Good evening, gentlemen and ladies. Tonight, we host a number of bouts for your enjoyment between some of the most fearsome and deadly gladiators on the entire continent!” The old man waited for the cheering to die down. “But first, we must allow the worms to compete—a pair of initiation matches to weed out the scum. We’ve paired them up so that the rubbish will be disposed with quicker and waste less of your time.” Elyas was surprised at the impassioned cheers for men who hadn’t even earned the title gladiator. Perhaps the spectators were simply eager to see some bloodshed.
The announcer had a smirk on his lips as he waved the crowd to silence. “And now, I present from the Houses Gornella and Pasikos, fighters who would seek to prove themselves worthy of donning the mantle of gladiators.”
From the enthusiasm of the crowd, Elyas thought a brawl between crones at a fish market would likely make them cheer. Nonetheless, he felt a knot of anxiety stealing into his gut as the moment rapidly approached, the same he had felt staring down the enemy on the battlefield. A glance at Harlan showed his friend looking pale, but he met Elyas’s eyes and nodded solemnly, resolved to either survive the night or earn a clean death.
“And now, the nameless worms will take the arena. If they should survive to walk off the sands victorious, they will be given names and added to the ranks of gladiators!” The cheers intensified even more.
As the announcer prattled on to drum up the intensity, Elyas glanced back at the nobles and gasped when he saw her there. She was sitting on one side of Pasikos, the lord’s consort on the other, but he had eyes only for the first woman. She reclined on the grandiose seat provided her, feet resting casually on the low wall separating them from the combatants.
Nesnys—the one who was responsible for his fate.
She looked different yet still striking—her wings were gone, and she wore a leather sleeveless jerkin and snug breeches tucked into knee-high boots, her garb showing off her muscular physique to good effect. Her ashen hair was flowing loosely down her back, a strand stirring in the breeze and blowing into her face. Her eyes were a pale gray rather than silver. Despite the changes in physical appearance, he had no doubt it was her. He recognized the distinctive longsword and dagger belted at her waist.
Nesnys brushed the stray hair back from her face, a surprisingly human gesture. Her eyes met Elyas’s, and her lips curled in a smile. They regarded each other for a long moment before Elyas wrenched his gaze away, forcing himself to focus on his approaching opponent, now only a few paces distant. The old man had wrapped up his spiel and was retreating toward his seat near the nobles.
Elyas felt flushed in spite of the evening chill, and his emotions churned at the sight of Nesnys. Anger, hate, fascination, desire… all seemed to cycle through him so swiftly he didn’t know what his true feelings for her were.
“The gods watch over you, Elyas,” Harlan said, nervously adjusting his grip on his sword.
“You as well, my friend. After this, we’ll be nameless no more.”
“Fight!” the announcer boomed over the crowd noise.
Elyas advanced with a confident stride, relieved to finally be turned loose to perform an activity he knew well. Harlan kept pace to his left. They slowed a couple paces from their opponents. The man with sword and shield had a smashed nose, obviously broken a number of times. The smaller man with the paired swords was missing an ear. The crowd cheered louder as the fighters sized each other up, then suddenly Flat Nose bellowed and charged.
Elyas met his attack. He raised his shield and blocked the overhand sword strike with the rim, bringing his axe across in a chop at his foe’s ribs. Flat Nose blocked with his own shield, then they were shoving into each other, shields battering and weapons hacking away. Elyas was younger and stronger, but his opponent was obviously a veteran fighter. Each attack he attempted, his opponent parried or caught against his shield, all while keeping Elyas pressed to defend himself.
Harlan didn’t seem to be having much better luck. He stabbed and slashed swiftly, but his foe’s paired weapons seemed to confound his attacks, and he was often forced to defend himself, giving ground and dodging as much as he used his buckler.
Elyas circled around Flat Nose, pushing him back with a series of methodical attacks as he probed for weaknesses in his defense. He abruptly relented, jumping back to avoid a slash at his thigh, then responded with a shield bash, clipping the elbow of Flat Nose’s sword arm. Flat Nose fumbled his grip on his sword for a mere instant, but it was all Elyas needed. He brought his axe down on the rim of Flat Nose’s shield, catching it beneath the axe’s beard, then yanked his shield wide. Flat Nose was unable to either dodge or bring his sword up in time to defend Elyas’s next shield bash. His shield boss took Flat Nose right on the chin, breaking bone. The man staggered momentarily, then Elyas buried his axe in Flat Nose’s skull, splitting his helm like an eggshell, bits of gore leaking out around his blade.
The crowd roared as Flat Nose fell. Elyas pumped his axe in the air, caught up in the frenzy and reveling in the admiration of the crowd. He looked around to check on Harlan. He would not intervene unless Harlan was in danger of his life, giving his friend the opportunity to earn his own victory.
Harlan’s opponent was limping from a deep gash in his thigh, and he was clearly slowing. One Ear was forced back as Harlan pressed the attack. He parried one sword wide then stepped inside, his buckler catching the second blade and giving him just enough time for his short sword to swiftly jab into One Ear’s gut. Harlan withdrew his blade and darted back before One Ear could respond. He needn’t have bothered. One of the swords tumbled from One Ear’s hands, and he touched the hole in his gut as if disbelieving.
“Finish him! Finish him!” the crowd chanted.
Harlan looked to Elyas, clearly disgusted at the spectacle, but Elyas nodded in response.
“Give them what they want,” he called. “We’ll be done with this soon enough.”
Harlan nodded, clenching his jaw grimly, then lunged in and drove his sword neatly through One Ear’s heart. One Ear must have had a flair for the dramatic, for he staggered around a moment clutching his chest before his legs realized he was dead. The crowd’s roar grew deafening at One Ear’s faceplant into the dirt.
By then, the old announcer was already back on his feet. “The worms of House Pasikos have proven themselves worthy of being called gladiator and having names bestowed upon them. The next time you see them before you, they shall be true gladiators!”
Elyas glanced over at the nobles’ box. P
asikos looked well pleased. He had a goblet of wine in his jeweled hand and was chatting idly with Nesnys. She was regarding Elyas with an intensity that made a shiver run down his spine before she smiled and turned back to her host.
“Well done, you two!” Dirich clapped Elyas and Harlan on their backs as they walked off the arena floor, as if they were all old drinking companions. “I knew you were better than that other sorry lot.” His grin was full of crooked brown teeth.
Several servants scurried out to drag the corpses away. A moment later, the announcer was hyping up the next bout.
“Shoat, take these two to the healer to get checked out,” Dirich directed. Without waiting for an answer, he went to talk to Rihat, the next gladiator up.
“Not bad for new slaves.” Shoat’s thick lips parted in a smile that was more of a grimace. “Now you get names like real men.”
They returned to the holding pen and stripped off their armor and weapons, returning them to the equipment chests. Then Shoat led them back outside, away from the crowd to the waiting transport wagon. Edara was waiting in the back, and a few guards stood nearby, craning their necks, obviously disappointed to be out of sight of any of the action.
“So you survived,” Edara remarked drolly, beckoning Elyas and Harlan to sit on the edge of the wagon. “Let’s get a look at how bad it was this time.”
Elyas hadn’t even realized he had a long cut in the meat of his forearm near his elbow, just behind the edge of the bracer. Other than that, he hadn’t received any wounds in the battle. Harlan had a shallow gash on a shoulder and another on one thigh.
While Edara got to work cleaning and applying salve to their wounds, Elyas momentarily closed his eyes, listening to the thunder of the crowd as Rihat faced off with his opponent. He wondered when they’d be trusted enough to get their own chambers and a chance at escape.
When he reopened his eyes a moment later, Nesnys was standing before him. He started, and Edara glanced up at her curiously, obviously not knowing who or what she was.
The Way of Pain Page 25