by Lexy Wolfe
“Never would let me tend to her injuries when she fought here. She told me you were the one who tended her injuries, and she was adamant only you were allowed to touch her. So, I’ve no doubts to your skills if she’s still alive. But I can tell she’s pretty bad off now. Before I let her train, I want to examine her.”
Doom began coughing, pounding his chest to clear his throat. “She doesn’t like anyone but me touching her when it comes to—”
“I won’t need to touch her, I assure you. I can give you direction if there is something that needs attention.” The arena master considered the gromek’s uncertainty and reassured him. “If she wants to fight, she won’t have any choice. I won’t allow her into a match against a one-legged drooling idiot much less anyone else if she doesn’t. Tell me what I can expect.”
While worried Harther’s ultimatum would upset Tiwaz, Doom confided in the arena master with considerable relief. “I feel like it’s been more luck than my skill that’s kept her alive. She’d been beaten near to death by Alimar before we escaped. Don’t know how she survived, but she did. She’s not been back to her normal self since then.” He closed his eyes. “She tangled with a wild pig-thing that gored her. But she managed to survive that, too. I watched the wound close, but that is as far as it got. Everything remains tender to the touch, still. She usually hides it, but it shows after she’s pushed herself into exhaustion and it’s been taking longer every day for her to recover.”
“I see. Any other lingering concerns that you have? I can’t afford those good healing potions from the alchemists. We have no practitioners of those skill levels in this providence and to import one vial costs a small fortune.” Harther grunted. “I do have some minor ointments and salves. Not nearly as good, but they serve well enough.”
“Anything will help. But she has not been very patient. She wants to fight right away,” Doom stated with a sigh. “She wants to get to the Northern Territories as soon as possible.”
Harther waved a hand dismissively. “Let me handle that. I’ve years of experience dealing with gladiators. She can lay her blame on me. Anything else?”
With some reluctance, Doom nodded slowly. “There is a problem with her wrists.” He held up his hand, his sleeve falling back to display his scars. “Alimar had put shackles on us using magic so they had no seams and would grow as we grew. Mine broke with some effort. It…took a while for hers and…I don’t know. They are not healing right and she won’t even let me look at them. She changes the bandages herself and refuses to use any medicines to keep them from getting infected. She said it’d waste what little we have left and that I need them more.” He frowned, grumbling, “Not that she was wrong.”
“I see,” Harther said, thoughtful. The two ate in silence while the man pondered. “I had read in some of the older records that slave owners would put enchanted keepers on their fighters for a variety of reasons. Usually to make sure their fighter obeyed them while limiting how much of their ability they hindered. Do you know what hers did to her?”
Doom frowned, trying to think back and finally shook his head. “Alimar put them on shortly after he captured us. The only thing special I know they did was grow with us so they never needed to be removed and replaced. At least, I think that is all they did.” He looked at his own wrists with a thoughtful frown. “Visually, mine were matte to keep from reflecting light while hunting. He meant for hers to be seen.”
“I remember them,” Harther stated with distaste. “Still, there may have been something else. I’ll have to see what the damage is. You both should get bracers regardless. After having those for so long, your wrists have gotten used to the support they offered. And it will hide your scars.” Doom blinked at him, then held up his hands, rotating his wrists thoughtfully. “There is no shame in having been a slave once. But there are those who could try to…take advantage of what you had been. See if a bounty on your heads exists.”
“I see.” Doom scowled. “Thank you.”
“Bah, don’t thank me yet. There is a great deal that we need to do to get Tiwaz set to rights.” He brought over a tray, putting a plate and several bowls filled with food on it. “I need to get the medical supplies readied. Go feed that girl and be ready to be pulling dragon’s teeth to get her to listen.” Doom nodded quickly finishing the last of his food. He took the tray and headed back to the room he shared with the temperamental woman.
TIWAZ SLEPT SOUNDLY as Doom came in as quietly as he could. Putting the tray on the table, he lit the lamp, turning up the brightness. “Ti?” He moved to sit by her side, studying her face and brushing the strands of hair back. He smiled sadly. “I do not remember a time when we were so safe that you could sleep this soundly. But, you have slept nearly an entire day.” He shook her shoulder gently. “Ti, wake up.”
He jumped up and back several feet when she sat bolt upright, her eyes wide with alarm as she reached for the hilt of a non-existent weapon. “Ti!” She looked up at him owlishly. “Ti, relax, it’s just me. We’re safe.”
Bright red, she looked away. Doom put a reassuring hand on her shoulder briefly before turning the tray towards her pallet. She crawled over the pallet, moving the pillow to sit at the table. Blinking at the amount of food, she looked up in consternation. “Harther says don’t worry about anything we use or need. He’ll take it out of your pay.” Turning a deeper red, she nodded. She only took very small portions, frowning when Doom added more. He tapped the table meaningfully. “You need to heal and regain your strength to fight. You can’t do that without eating enough.”
“Fine.” She dipped the bread in the gravy, nibbling on it. Hunger started overwhelming her stubbornness and she ate with more vigor. She looked at him with a faint frown when he merely sat watching her. A flick of her eyes towards the other serving bowls expressed her unspoken question, guilt over self-perceived greed making her falter.
“I’ve eaten already. I helped Master Harther with repairs in the arena.” He waved to the tray. “That’s all for you.”
“I can’t eat all of that,” she complained, her guilt now over wasting this bounty of food. “This is too much already.”
Doom managed to smile, though he cringed inwardly as he realized how much Tiwaz had been deprived of adequate food since their escape. “Don’t worry. You’ve just not been eating much at once, so you aren’t used to it. You can eat more later.” He watched her closely, noticing the bandages on her wrists were more damp than usual, but he remained silent about the sensitive topic. “You were right.” She glanced up at him. “Master Harther is an honorable man. There are not many of those.”
“Maybe there are,” she replied, thoughtful. “I never interacted with others beyond those Alimar surrounded himself with and you, so maybe there are more honorable than dishonorable. I don’t know. I cannot imagine truly honorable people wanting to associate with Alimar willingly.” Finishing the last of her meal, she asked, “Did Master Harther say when the next fights will be?”
“You need to train before you can fight, Ti. You know that. Harther wants to check to see how your injuries have healed before he agrees to allow you begin training. And I want someone learned in the healing arts to make sure I’m doing the best I can for you.” Her expression darkened and he held up his hands helplessly. “It is his arena. We must abide by his rules.” He added, “He wanted to see you after you finished eating.”
The proud woman remained silent for several minutes, got to her feet and stalked out. “Fine. Let’s get this over with so I can get to fighting.” Doom looked skyward in supplication to the powers that be as he hurried to catch up.
Tiwaz pushed the infirmary door open with a stiff arm. Harther looked up from the shelves with jars, rolls of bandages, and other medicinals. “Your memory is sharp as ever,” he noted in mild, neutral tones. Doom closed the door behind him as she stood in the middle of the floor, arms crossed. “Your gromek friend tells me you have had quite a rough time of it the past few weeks.” He made a gesture. “You kno
w the drill.”
Without a word of argument, she stripped until the only cloth remaining on her body was the blood-soaked bandages on her wrists. Harther turned back when she was naked, looking her over with a professional, critical eye. “Some of those look like they were pretty ugly.” His voice reflected approval. “A fine job mending them, Doom.”
Tiwaz squared her shoulders with pride for her friend. The gromek inclined his head in gratitude for the praise. “Thank you, Master Harther.”
“Nearly all of my wounds are closed. There are not even scabs to worry about reopening. I can fight now?” she asked.
He stopped in front of her, holding out his hand. “I want to examine those wrists first. I can see the bandages need changing.”
She balked, snatching her hands behind her back. “There is no need. I can take care of them myself.”
Harther started to walk behind her, but she kept turning to keep him away from her hands. She yelped when Doom suddenly grabbed her forearms, forcing her to hold her hands out to Harther. “No! Let me go! Please!” The gromek grimaced at her uncharacteristic begging, enduring her kicking and squirming, holding her firmly while Harther removed the bandages.
The man’s eyes went wide when he exposed her wrists, making a religious gesture to ward off evil. “May the gods have mercy,” he whispered. He turned away to get a pan of water and a clean rag while she sagged to the ground, her hair obscuring her expression. Doom’s anguish could not be mistaken as he watched her tears of shame splash onto her chest.
Harther did his best to clean away the slime of putrescence, the fresh blood that welled up between the cracked scabs, the dead skin that peeled away. Beneath it all, unnatural movement resembling the coiling of worms, moved beneath what remained of her flesh. “Child, how long have they been like this?”
Her voice caught in her throat. “Ever since Master carved the glyphs into my wrists,” she whispered.
Doom’s eyes were wide in horror, then burned with a deep-seated rage. The spines along the back of his neck and back stood up as far as his clothing permitted. “He carved magic on you? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You were consumed by shame when he disfigured you. If you knew what he had done, you would have become angry, like you are now. And you would have attacked him. But you convinced yourself you could not die yet. And if you had attacked him, he would have hurt you more. Maybe killed you. And if he killed you, I would have been alone. You had made me promise to live. I had to make sure you lived, too, to keep my promise to you.”
Her voice was harsh with the depth of her shame. “You thought I was so strong, but I wasn’t. I wasn’t strong enough to stop him. I am not strong enough stay alive without you. Not telling you about the glyphs was the only way I knew you would not leave me.”
The spines flattened and he closed his eyes. “You were strong. You are strong. Stronger than I knew.” Turning his head to the side, he rested his cheek on her hair as he knelt behind her. Harther worked on cleaning her wrists thoroughly. “I promise we will find a way to get rid of…those things. And we will make him pay for his cruelty. I promise.”
She looked up with a gasp at the unexpected relief from pain as Harther began smearing ointment onto the ravaged flesh. “This should help the skin to heal, at least,” he said, keeping his eyes on his work and his voice strictly neutral. “You will need bracers to support your wrists. After so long with those shackles, they are too used to the support. It would take years to strengthen them. I’ll get some leather and make a set for you both.” He wrapped long strips of clean cloth around her wrists before he got to his feet and returned the supplies to their places.
“Can I fight now?” she asked, eyes still downcast. “Please. I must.”
“Get dressed,” Harther told her. After several minutes, he turned back to regard her, his face stoic. After several minutes, he spoke. “No, you cannot fight. Yet,” he added, holding up a hand to silence her argument. “Your more recent injuries are knit but fragile and unstable. You have been unable to train for weeks. And you have no sponsor. Unless you want the world to know Tiwaz is alive, you cannot fight as a known gladiator, and the law requires a handler of one sort or another.”
“Doom can be my sponsor. I can fight under a different name,” she snapped crossly. Harther arched an eyebrow. “Kiliana. Of the north. That’s different enough.”
“It isn’t that easy,” he countered. “Doom is unknown in the circles, and suddenly having some mysterious, eccentric sponsor would just draw more attention. You don’t need that. And while there may be a few sponsorless gladiators, they are independently wealthy and widely known.” Leaning on a table, he crossed his arms. “No. It is not possible with the current laws.”
Her expression crumbled. “But I need to fight! If I cannot fight, how will I earn money? Fighting is all I have, Master Harther. If I cannot fight, I cannot earn the money we need to buy supplies. I would be useless to Doom.” She would have continued, but Harther held up a hand to silence her.
“There is another way. In a month, there will be a festival where anyone unsponsored can fight if they pay the entrance fee. You can come in as an unknown amateur. No sponsor needed, complete anonymity.”
“But we have no money for an entrance fee,” Tiwaz argued in a small voice. “Money is why I need to fight.”
Harther finally let a small smile touch his hardened features. “Fighting is not the only means of earning money, Tiwaz. Remember that. Granted, right now, fighting is the fastest way for you.
“But you are not alone. You and Doom are a team. Teams work together to accomplish more than could be done alone. While you heal and train, Doom can help do some tasks around the arena to earn your entrance fee and any other things you need to prepare for the festival fights. And I will teach him how to take care of his gladiator properly. Like making sure she doesn’t push herself too hard.” She turned deep red when the gromek chuckled at that.
“It is not charity?” she questioned timorously, hugging herself. “I was supposed to—”
“Like he said, Ti, we are a team,” Doom murmured, putting one arm around her. “I cannot do what you can. I can only help get you ready.”
“I left training gear in the entrance to the sands,” Harther told her, keeping his tone brisk and businesslike. “Go light for now. Loosen up, let your body remember what it can do.” He wagged a finger at her. “And if you don’t, you don’t train until I say so. The only way you’ll fight is if I say you’re ready.”
She sighed and nodded. “Yes, Master Harther.” She started to walk out, pausing to look over her shoulder. “Thank you.”
Doom started to follow her, stopping when Harther put a hand on his arm. “Here.” He put a small basket filled with rolls of bandages and several jars of ointments in Doom’s hands. “Change the bandages often and put this on the damaged skin. Few days should see her right, or at least better.” He patted the gromek’s shoulder. “Now go on. Make sure she doesn’t overextend herself. She never was aware of how much time passes when she’s lost in the fight, training or otherwise.” Doom could only nod his gratitude, holding the basket of medical supplies like the most precious of treasures.
SILVERY MOONLIGHT BATHED the arena sands as Tiwaz went through practice routines with the various training weapons. Her pace was slow, her motions methodical. Her green eyes flashed in the moon’s glow, fixed on opponents in her mind’s eye.
On the ground level corridor that encircled the sands, Harther and Doom watched. “I have to admit,” Harther commented, glancing sideways to the gromek who leaned on the arena ring wall beside him to watch. “She’s improved faster than I had expected. Though if rumors of her skills are even half true, she has a long way to go before she’s back in her prime. Her rhythm is off.”
Doom frowned, not looking away from his friend. “Will this be a problem?”
“Nah. She is already heads and shoulders above most of what ends up signing up for the open matches. Only ch
allenge she might face is someone trying to make a name for themselves to get picked up as a circuit gladiator.” Harther smiled faintly. “That’s what the open bouts during festivals are designed for. Recruiting new blood for the arenas. Most who will fight are those who think they have skills and believe fighting’s a quick way to gold and glory. So long as she doesn’t identify herself by the word ‘tiwaz’ or as ‘Warrior,’ and lets the crowd nickname her, then she’ll just be seen as an anomaly.”
The gromek snorted. “She will complain because they are beneath her skill level.”
Harther laughed in agreement, then yawned hugely. “Ah, I mourn the passing of the stamina of my youth. I’m going to turn in. I’ll stoke the fire for the bathing room, and put food for the day in your room. The water should be ready when she finally decides she’s had enough for tonight. If you need any medicines, you know where to find them, just make sure you both are holed up before sunrise. The closer it gets to the festival, the earlier my trainers arrive to allow people to practice.”
“Will do. Thank you again, Master Harther. For everything.”
Harther waved a dismissive hand. “Bah. Just making up now for what I could not do then. I wanted to help Tiwaz escape long before now. Children have no business being in this profession. But she refused.”
Doom turned away. “Because of me.”
“Not just you, even if you were her primary reason to decline,” Harther contradicted. “You. Me. The people of this city. Anyone that bastard might have felt deserved his wrath if she even attempted escape.” The man looked into the arena. “I’ve known slaves who stay because they’re afraid of the unknown. Not her. The idea that we might come to harm…” He shook his head. “She is a special woman, Doom. Her only thoughts were to protect everyone and she used herself to do it. Not many are willing to suffer what she must have for people she didn’t know nor had ever met.”