Authors: Deborah Chester
Astonished
silence dropped over the crowd; then a babble of voices and questions rose in a
tumult.
Caelan
ignored all of it, keeping a wary eye on the gladiator who was still glaring at
him.
Trainers
and handlers rushed up with whips and spears to separate them, but a clear
voice called out, “Let them spar!”
The
auctioneer wilted on his podium, but with visible resignation gestured for the
space to be cleared.
Handlers
unchained the last gladiator from the line, although he retained his leg
shackles. The rest of the team was moved out and secured in the pens for sold
goods. Men dragged the still-unconscious Ubin out of the way.
Caelan
found himself breathing too fast, feeling suddenly alone and vulnerable as he
faced the brute, who had begun to smile slowly and viciously. The man’s eyes
held absolutely nothing but a flat sort of pleasure.
He
would enjoy killing Caelan, and he had training and efficiency on his side.
“Weapons?”
asked the auctioneer.
“No
weapons,” said the trainer, who wore a dark blue chevron embroidered on his
leather jerkin. His gaze shifted appraisingly from Caelan to the gladiator. “Quick
sparring,” he ordered. “Move!”
The
gladiator reacted to the instructions by dropping to a half-crouch and circling
Caelan, who nervously circled with him.
The
chains on his feet were a problem. Caelan tripped himself and stumbled.
Instantly the gladiator seized the moment and lunged.
It
was like being rushed by a charging bull. Caelan had an overwhelming impression
of size and strength. Fear gripped him, but he had faced worse in the past.
Steeling himself, he managed to recover his balance in time to dodge at the
last second.
The
gladiator’s lethal fists missed him, and the man’s surprise was revealed in the
lines of his shoulders as he skidded to a halt and swung around. Cheering went
up, and bets began to be laid among the crowd.
Sweat
poured into Caelan’s eyes. He shifted lightly on the balls of his feet, his
tattered amulet bag thumping against his chest, every sense painfully alert. He
could fight with his fists, but his common sense told him he wouldn’t have a
chance against this man. All he could do was to keep dodging and pray he didn’t
trip.
This
time when the gladiator charged, Caelan was ready for him. Only the man feinted
one way, then shifted back. Caelan twisted desperately, too late to save
himself from his mistake. A fist slammed into his ribs like a hammer blow.
Caelan
grunted as the wind was driven from him. He went down hard, fighting off a rush
of blackness. The man loomed over him, but Caelan reached desperately for
severance
just as a mighty kick
connected with his side. He felt a rib snap, but
severance
blocked the pain.
Rolling,
Caelan regained his feet just in time to avoid another blow. From a great
distance he heard the crowd’s amazement, but he was floating now in the
coldness of separation. The gladiator didn’t waste time on surprise of his own.
A shift in his eyes warned Caelan, and Caelan surged in straight at the man,
getting close enough to touch that mighty chest with his palm before he leapt
back.
Using
sevaisin,
the joining, he learned
what the gladiator’s strategy was and moved to anticipate the gladiator’s next
attack.
This
time he got in a dirty kick to the man’s groin, half- connecting even as the
gladiator caught his heel and flipped him upside down.
Caelan
was rolling before he hit the ground. The gladiator didn’t even come close to
him that time. Regaining his feet, Caelan crouched, letting the coldness carry
him farther and farther from any awareness save his opponent.
“Stop!”
The
command came sharply, cutting across the battle haze. The gladiator, breathing
hard and slick with sweat, paused immediately. It took longer for Caelan to
adjust. He dropped abruptly out of
severance
and bit off a sharp gasp of pain. The broken rib felt
like a knife stabbing him with every breath.
He
refocused his gaze and realized the trainer’s hand was gripping his shoulder.
The man tipped back his head and checked his eyes, then forced a thumb into his
mouth and felt of his teeth.
“How
old?” the trainer asked him in Lingua.
Caelan
glanced around for Ubin, but the old man was nowhere in sight. “I am one and
twenty,” he said.
A
commotion from the crowd made him look, and even the trainer swung around
quickly and bowed.
The
prince appeared, oblivious to the stares and talk. He was perhaps a decade
older than Caelan, slim and upright, with black hair and a narrow, very
precisely trimmed chinstrap beard and mustache. A handsome man, this prince of
the empire. He wore a linen tunic dyed a vibrant shade of blue, and sleek hose
of patterned cloth. A modern dueling sword—thin and almost dainty had it not
also been a deadly weapon—swung at his side, and his hands were strong and well
shaped. A large square-cut sapphire glowed in his left ear.
He
stared up at Caelan with one dark brow arching in visible admiration. “Impressive,”
he said without preamble. “This young giant moves quicker than thought itself.
Quicker than his size should allow. Who owns him? What is his provenance?”
The
auction officials stirred about and dragged forth a shaken Ubin, still
fuzzy-eyed and confused.
“No
provenance, sir,” the trainer said with scorn. “Anyone can see he’s
green-trained, if that. A rower, by the look of his muscles.”
“Yes,”
the prince murmured. “Rowers who are properly rotated develop the bodies of
gods, and this one has a face to match.”
Caelan
eyed him warily. Excessive compliments could indicate the kind of interest he
didn’t like. Caelan had been sold to the galleys in the first place because he
spurned his first owner.
The
trainer snorted. “A Traulander by the look of him, and Traulanders don’t fight.”
Prince
Tirhin’s gaze ran over Caelan. “This one would, if he knew how. There’s plenty
of spirit in those blue eyes. Now, I just paid top price for a team of champion
fighters, and the man got in only two strikes against this one. Either I have
wasted my money, or this boy has potential. What say you, trainer?”
The
trainer shook his head. “I don’t like the looks of him, sir. And who has the
time to train him from the ground up, with season starting in two months?”
“That
is your problem,” Prince Tirhin said. He stepped closer to Caelan and smiled. “Well,
lad? Have you spirit enough to fight under my colors?”
Caelan
felt hope and satisfaction rising in him. He kept his eyes lowered respectfully
to hide what he felt. “Yes, master,” he said quietly.
“A
dodger,” the trainer grumbled, still frowning. “Could be the mark of a coward,
when it comes to the pinch. All the fancy footwork in the world won’t make a
man fight if he hasn’t the heart.”
The
prince’s smile widened. “Then he’ll be good practice fodder for the others. Buy
him.”
The
trainer bowed. “Yes, sir.”
As
the prince walked away, Ubin lifted his hands in the air and crowed. “A
prince
has bought my slave. I am
doubly honored. I am a rich man.” Gloating openly, he grinned up at Caelan and
clapped him on the shoulder. “Good boy. Good boy! Hah, you’ll do fine now.
Pampered on a rich man’s team. Fed well and trained daily. Yes, yes.”
An
answering grin spread across Caelan’s face.
The
trainer, however, counted out twenty ducats into Ubin’s palm, and even as Ubin’s
mouth opened to protest, the auctioned snatched two of the coins for his
commission.
“But,
sir,” Ubin sputtered wildly, “only twenty—”
“He
grateful for that,” the trainer said with a sneer and set his hand on Caelan’s
broken rib.
The
pain was instant and grinding. Caelan winced and sank to one knee.
“Damaged
goods go cheaply in this ring,” the trainer
said. With a laugh, he
hauled Caelan to his feet and shoved him forward.
Ubin
trotted beside them, still protesting. The trainer cut him off sharply. “Begone,
old fool! Your former slave hasn’t made any team I’m training. He’ll go to the
common arena, and if he survives that hellhole, we’ll think about using him
next season.”
Consternation
filled Caelan. He couldn’t stop himself from looking back in protest. “But the
prince said—”
“The
prince has already forgotten your existence.” The trainer shoved him through
the archway into the maze of holding pens beyond. “Now step lively!”
A
t dusk the
delivery wagon paused at a
guarded checkpoint, then rolled through tall, spiked gates into a compound
filled chiefly with low barracks-like buildings. The wagon stopped before a
towering, octagonal-shaped building. Torches set into brackets flamed brightly
on either side of the entrance.
A
man appeared there, short and heavyset, with bullish shoulders that strained
against his jerkin. His head was shaved bald and gleamed with oil in the ruddy
torchlight. A dagger hung from his belt, and in his free hand he carried a
short club fitted with varying lengths of knotted rope.
Climbing
down from the wagon with the others, Caelan found himself eying the weapon
warily. He knew what a cattail club was. He’d felt the vicious marks of one on
his back more than once, and he never wanted to be punished that way again.
“Get
in line!” A guard passed among the new fighters quickly, pushing and shoving
them into a straggly row.
The
bald man walked along them, his dark liquid eyes making a rapid inspection.
When he came to Caelan, he paused and frowned.
“This
man is sick.”
The
driver from the auction spat and handed over a paper. “Injured while sparring
on the block for one of the customers. It’s marked, here, see?”
“Ah.”
The bald man held his torch higher while he peered at the paper. “Bought cheap
enough.” Then he loosed a low whistle. “Bought by the prince!”
He
gave Caelan a second look, doubt more evident in his face than before.
Grudgingly he nodded. “That’ll be noted, and you’ll get the better food the
prince always specifies. Well, well. He hasn’t sent anyone to me to be trained
in months. Not since he hired that fancy private trainer.”
Still
nodding, he inked a mark on the paper and handed it back to the driver. “All
accounted for. Drive on.”
The
wagon turned laboriously and headed out the gates, its slatted sides rattling.
The darkness swallowed it, and soon even the tired plodding hoofbeats faded
from hearing.
The
bald man stepped back and glared at the line of fighters. “Welcome to the
common arena,” he said in a gruff, no-nonsense voice. “Otherwise known as the
hellhole. Those of you who are veterans, don’t think you’ll have it easy here.
This is Imperia, and our arena is like no other in the world. As for you green
ones, if you don’t know one end of a sword from the other, you have two months
to learn before season starts. After that, you’ll fight or you’ll die. It’s
that simple. I’m Orlo. My word is law. Disobey me, and you’ll find there are
worse things than death. Am I clear?”
No
man answered.
Orlo
squinted at them and finally nodded. “Guards! Take them to the delousing tank,
then quarters.”
The
guards were wary, armed to the teeth, and quick. They shoved the men forward
with shouts and oaths designed to confuse and intimidate.
Thinking
only of food and a pile of straw for sleep, Caelan followed at the end of the
line a little slower than the others. He had his elbow pressed against his
aching side for support, and he was almost tempted to ask for some etherd root
to chew on to ease the pain. But he dared not make any request until he knew
what manner of rules existed here.
Just
as he passed Orlo, the trainer swung the cattail club viciously across Caelan’s
bare back. The blow drove him to his knees, and the pain from his rib robbed
him of breath. His scream lay smothered in his throat, and for a blinding
moment he was awash in crimson and sickly gray. His back burned as though on
fire, and he thought he might never breathe again.