Book One Chapters 4-7

Chapter 4

Slaves are not people. Remember that even a slave child is property. None of them deserve mercy, or consideration beyond that of a prized horse. They are inventory, just as any another livestock.
- Baron Deus Valkerig, Patriarch of House Valkerig


The next day was much the same as the first. Cyan awoke early, ate, trained, and ate again. Training was tiring, and his body was sore, but quickly adapting to the new type of work. His body was accustomed to work. His new comrades made it easier to take his mind of fatigue, and Briel made it easier to forget what he was here for.

The rest of the day greeted Cyan as he sat in the shade of the north wall of the training field. He was sore, and tired. He was contemplating a bath again when his musing were interrupted.
Athrax stood before him, dressed, as he was when they met. The same casual wolf-like smile played across his face.

“ Taking well to the work?” His voice as always, was smooth.

Cyan nodded.

“ Good. Ulrag seems to think you have promise.”

Cyan wondered if Ulrag could convey such things with mere grunts.

“ I take it you’d rather that I just get to the point?” He smiled, and Cyan nodded. “ The lady of the house wishes your presence.”

Cyan stood, immediately holding his arms out to be shackled. Doing so was second nature.

“ That won’t be necessary. We both know any idea you might entertain of harming her would simply end in your death. Follow me.”

He turned and walked across the courtyard, through the oak door and up a set of stairs. When they reached the top the hallway that they entered was furnished with a fine long rug, woven of a heavy, richly colored fabric. It was obviously expensive, and coupled with the silver candelabras that lined the hall, it was obvious the lady of the house had at least a decent amount of wealth. A faint scent of jasmine hung in the air, and even faint it seemed to drown out the smell of sweat and work on Cyan.

Athrax walked him to the end of the hall to another heavy oak door set with bronze hinges and trimmings. It was there the warrior stopped, folding his arms across his chest.

“ I warn you to be polite. The mistress does not balk any insult. Should you think me a cruel hand, then I bid you” he curled his lips into a smile “ bid you, to but test her once, and my temper will pale in comparison.”

Cyan nodded and opened the door. A sunlit parlor lay before him, and the smell of jasmine was strong in the air. He walked in, shutting the door behind him quietly. The parlor was expansive, and well decorated. A few tapestries hung on the walls, depicting finely woven scenes of beauty; young Elven men and women in forests, birds in flight, and a sunlit day. A heavy rug was on the floor, spreading out over most of the room, woven in as fine a detail as the tapestries. Two bookshelves stood on the far wall, one full of bound tomes, the other arrayed with various curios and knick-knacks. He was interested slightly in the books, having a base amount of reading knowledge, taught to him in secret by an old slave from the pits. The interest was only passing, realizing these were not his, and to demonstrate that he could read was a crime for a slave, punishable by severe flogging.

There was a table in the middle of the room with a bowl laden with fruit. Two chairs sat around it, wooden with intricate carvings worked up the legs. Each was a latticework of leaves on a vine, working their way up the legs to the backs of the chairs. Sunlight poured in from the two suns through a large window canopied with purple silk, overlooking the bustling city of Tacoma. A game table, stacked with the Haiji pieces sat off to the corner, with two comfortable looking wooden seats with pillows in front of it. A door set into the north wall was closed, oak with bronze trimmings as the first door. On the lentil was a peculiar symbol, carved into the sandstone and laced with bronze. Cyan had never seen it before, an upside down ‘v’ with two lines through the top. He surmised it was probably magical, and should not be touched. Leaning beside the door was a heavy crossbow, made of ironwood, dark stained, with a jet-black trigger and guard.

He was alone in the room. Standing stock still, he waited. Almost two minutes passed, and become restless he walked over to the window. As he approached he realized it was large enough for him to fit through and perhaps escape. The thought crossed his mind until he looked out and down; below the window stood two men in light leather armor, bearing swords at their sides. Before them was the wall to the complex. Escape did not seem like an option.

He looked out into the city, amazed at how large it was. He had heard Tacoma was about the sixth largest Imperial City, boasting some thirty thousand inhabitants. By the size of what he saw, it was hard to imagine a larger place. Buildings, some five stories tall stretched the landscape. Three things stood out in the horizon. The first was the Windshear mountain range in the distance, the separation between the Thies Desert and the Imperial heartland. The second was the tallest structure in all of Tacoma, a tower made of dark brown sandstone, standing at least twenty stories tall and in the middle of the city. The third was the dustbowl dug into Tacoma, some streets over. Cyan saw it and knew what it was immediately. It was the arena in which he would fight.

The rest of Tacoma consisted of sandstone structures and silk tents. Activity was everywhere as the merchants hustled their wares, and the commoners bustled about. Patrols of guards roamed the street, and laborers labored. Cyan could not help but feel intimidated by the size of the place, and fascinated with the possibilities it could offer, even as he realized that he could not take part in them. Musing, he wondered what it would be like to stroll down the promenade and eat sweet dates as a freeman. The thought soon vanished as the door behind him opened.

He turned around to face a woman of great beauty. It stunned him, she was neither young nor old, but mature, and beautiful. Standing five hands tall, with a slim graceful figure, she was enviable at the least, revered at the best. To say she was attractive would be using to small a word. Beautiful was more applicable. She wore a tight fitting corseted silk blouse, cut low to accent her figure. A thin line of perspiration traced down her neck, going down where any man would have wished to follow. One arm was tucked behind her back, the other nonchalantly waving a fan back and forth, making the tips of hair long black hair dance on her shoulders. Her skin was bronzed, not tanned, just lightly kissed by the suns. A long indigo skirt wrapped tight around her legs, the sheer silk giving Cyan an idea of exactly how she looked. Her eyes were a tinge of brown, with small, but noticeably exotic green specks.

“ Commanding view, don’t you think?” Her voice was soft, but imposing in it’s presence, and tone.

Cyan nodded, overtaken for the second time in as many days by a beautiful woman.

“ The city has grown much in the last few years.” She continued to stroll forward, her eyes slowly moving up and down him, appraising him. “ Please, do sit.” She gestured with the fan towards a chair at the table. He did so, moving slowly, and feeling like an ox as he did.

She took the seat across from him and smiled slightly, a polite smile. It was almost comforting, but Cyan quickly remembered she was no slave, she was not his equal. She was his master.

“ You are Cyan?”

He nodded.

“ Allow me to formally introduce myself. I am Lady Imona Valkrieg, of the ninth Imperial House, daughter of Lord Deus Valkrieg; Baron of the Valkerig holdings in Holstamp.
Cyan nodded. His last master was by no means this important. Even a slave knew what power her title held. She was a member of one of the Imperial houses, one of the forty seven Imperial noble families, the hereditary lords of the Empire. It was from the first house that the Emperor came, and to be of the ninth house meant that she had power, and influence that spread far and wide.

“ You are a slave. My slave to be precise. I wish that to be stated first.”

Cyan nodded once again.

“ However, please Cyan, you look so stiff. Relax. Take an apple if you wish.” She gestured to the bowl of fruit, and Cyan had to pull his eyes from her to notice it. He hesitantly nodded again, and took a ripe apple from the bowl, tentatively holding it in his hands.

“ You are my slave, yes, but trust me, it is not as bad as it may seem. True, you are now a combatant, and will risk life and limb in the trials for my profit and the cheers of the crowds. But this is not as bad as it may seem.”

She relaxed more into her seat, lazily fanning herself.

“ It has it’s advantages. Freedom being the foremost. I’ll have you know, two of mine have gone free now.”

Cyan nodded, not sure if this was remotely true, but wanting it to be.

“ I do not wish you to be beaten if you do wrong, nor punished simply because you are a slave. I look at our relationship as more of a business proposition. Why would I have you whipped, beaten, if you are so much more valuable intact and well? Would you not fight better in the trials if you are in good health?”

Cyan nodded.

“ To me, this is a business. I provide you with a means to get what you want; freedom. You provide me with impeccable service in the trials , which garners accolades and winnings for my house, and makes me a profit. Do you see how this is mutually beneficial?

Cyan nodded.

“ Cyan.” Her smile broadened, and it made his body tingle. “ You may speak if you wish.”

“ Yes my lady.”

“ I am sure you are wondering why I would employ” her smile bcame coy “ someone like Athrax if I meant all that I am saying.”

The question caught Cyan off guard, bit he nodded nonetheless.

“ He can be over exuberant, yes, but realize, simply, he is my insurance, so to speak, to make sure no one would take advantage of our business arrangement.”

“ Yes my lady.”

“ I give him too much free reign sometimes, but I’m sure you understand his purpose?”

“ Yes my lady.”

“ Good.” She gestured at the apple. “ Please, enjoy it.”

He quickly bit into the apple, and found it intoxicating. It was in perfect season he guessed, this being the first real fruit he had eaten. It was truly one of the best pieces of food he had ever eaten, and he quickly devoured it as they continued to talk.

“ You are young Cyan, how young?”

“ Seventeen winters my lady.” His voice cracked as he spoke, and she smiled slightly, causing him to blush.

“ And you were born a slave?”

“ Yes my lady.”

“ I’m sure you hope to impress the crowds and myself enough that you will get your chance before the Emperor to gain freedom?”

When he answered, his voice did not crack and he spoke with conviction. “ Yes.”

She smiled. “ Do well, train hard, and your chance will come.”

He nodded, smiling, and finished the apple.

“ Have you had combat experience before?”

“ No my lady.”

“ Well, with your size, I’m sure you will do well despite that. Ulrag is an excellent trainer.”

“ Yes my lady.”

“ Have you found any weapons you prefer yet?”

“ Yes, the broad rapier, it feels as if it will be my choice of weapons.”

“ Ah yes, the knight’s sword. Excellent choice. Coupled with the gloved main gauche, the crowd will love it.”

Cyan nodded.

“ They love to see someone emulate the knights, wielding their weaponry of choice, traditionally most combatants who emulate the knightly tradition do very well in the trials.”

“ Yes my lady.”

She laughed, a slight airy laugh. “ Cyan, ease yourself, you are too tense. You never know, when you are a freeman, you may find yourself speaking to a woman of stately grace, and simple yes and no my ladies will not work when having polite conversation.”

The thought entertained him, a bold image of himself wearing fine clothes, free, escorting Lady Imona into a state dinner, speaking, walking, and acting as a free man.

“ I’m sure a young man such as yourself let free into the masses of noble women would make quite an impact.” He blushed immediately, smiling.

“ So tell me, what are your thoughts on the other’s here?”

He paused a moment, making sure his voice would not crack when he spoke. “ Memos is the best among us. He’s strong, quick, smart. He is the best. Sherrill is close behind him, not as strong as Memos, but more resolute. Pix is quick, agile, and Maris could be among the best as well.”

“ And yourself?” She smiled.

He shrugged “ I have something to work for, so I will be the best.”

Her eyes lit up “ Good Cyan. I am pleased to have talked with you. I think we both understand which page we are on.” He nodded as they stood up and walked to the door. As she opened it he nodded his head to her. She smiled in return and closed the door behind him.

“ Enjoy your visit?” Athrax asked, leaning against the wall, regarding the young man coolly.

“ Yes.”

“ Good. She’s as deadly as she is beautiful.” Athrax said, smiling.

“ I imagine so.”

“ Slaves aren’t allowed an imagination. Get moving.”

Cyan turned and walked down the corridor. Athrax followed him until they got outside and then the warrior departed.

Cyan walked over to the wall and sat down, feeling the heat from the day pass away as the shade fell over him. She still stood out in his mind, her beauty, her voice, her promises. All of them were intoxicating. Visions of freedom, what life could be like, would be like if he was released from the shackles. This concept frightened him but at the same time created an odd sensation inside him, one of hope. This sensation made him feel strong, and yet weak with such a fragile idea.

“ So she had the talk with you.” Briel’s voice from beside him brought him back to reality quickly. Twice now the women had caught him off guard, and he felt it to be a good indication of the way his life would be structured.

He turned to face her. She was leaning in the door with her arms crossed, hair tied up in a bun, small strands of it going this way and that. The toll of work was painted all over her, and although not as clean, not as made up, not as sensual, or exotic as Lady Imona, Briel was beautiful, and once again the bashfulness that Cyan hated crept upon him. She was different from the Lady Valkerig. Beautiful in a different, softer, yet somehow stronger way. It confused Cyan, the distinction, and he stared at her, even as the red warmth came to his cheeks.

“ The talk?” His voice almost cracked, but he enforced ironclad control over it.

“ The talk. Let me guess, she promised you freedom, right?”

He nodded.

“ A business arrangement, right?” He noted the sarcasm heavy in her voice and nodded.

“ Briel I have need of you, now.” Athrax’s voice called from across the courtyard.
She looked over at him. “ Coming Athrax.” Cyan was surprised she called him by name, the familiarity implied a great deal, and it agitated him. He knew the familiarity a slave was forced into, or sometimes chose from their masters. The feeling did not sit well with him.

She looked back down at him. “ Good luck.” Turning she followed Athrax into the compound. As the door closed, Cyan saw his arm encircle her torso.

He stood up and spit to the ground, feeling a new anger well up inside him. He stalked out of the courtyard, fists clenched. Passing by the common room he heard his name called and turned around.

“ Are you alright?” Maris asked, sitting at the banquet table with Memos.

Cyan breathed in deeply, letting the anger pass, feeling it starting to leave his body, almost a tangible force. He sat down at the table next to Maris.

“ Fine.” He breathed.

Memos Chuckled. “ You are far to young to have learned to control your emotions yet. Just this morning I believe you were almost to the point of passing out at the mere sight of someone?”

Cyan frowned, the anger slowly rising again.

Memos lost the humor in his voice as he spoke. “ Ah, I see. The source of your problems?”

Cyan nodded, letting his fists unclench.

“ And why is that?”

“ I don’t know.”

“ Come now, out with it. What’s bothering you?”

Cyan sighed. “ I don’t know. A couple of things.”

“ Such as?”

“ Something Briel said and did.”

“ Ah. So I was right. Explain.”

“ I just met with Lady Imona, and she explained how things work here.”

“ The business arrangement.” Memos said, chuckling.

“ Yes.” Cyan responded, a look of confusion on his face.

“ You didn’t believe her did you?”

Cyan continued to look confused.

“ Oh dear. I see. Cyan, she is our master, and I for one don’t buy that line of business arrangement. If things were so, I would have been freed years ago.”

The anger continued to work its course through Cyan, and he buried his face into his hands. “ Then the part about freedom isn’t true?”

“ Oh yes, it is. But it’s far, far away in the hands of one man, and his choice. Don’t believe her, trust in yourself, and hope you can make it to that day when at one trial, the Emperor notices you. Don’t look for help from her.”

Cyan sighed, and clenched and unclenched his fists as they spoke. He could feel his anger, hot, burning, rolling inside him.

“ Continue though.”

“ I think that’s what Briel was getting at. Until we were interrupted.”

“ By Athrax?”

“ Yes.”

“ And this bothers you?”

“ I may be young Memos, but I know what I see.”

“ Explain.”

His words were almost spat out as he spoke. “ She calls him by name and goes to his beck and call!”

“ Yes. Yes she does. She is one of us after all.”

“ Yes I know ” he searched for the words, finding it hard to concentrate as he felt his head pounding, and his body tensing up “ I know when a slave must..., must” his jaw clenched as he said it “ must please their masters. I am not so young that I have not seen this.”
Memos nodded, realizing that he mistook Cyan for being too naive.

“ But, she called him by name! And this, this isn't done! Unless-”

Memos furrowed his eyebrows, looking to Maris.

“ Cyan you would have found out soon enough. It is fortunate that you found out now before you develop any feeling towards her.”

“ I have no such feelings.” He spat back.

“ In any case, she is not really forced to please him.”

Cyan stared icily at Memos. “ She chooses to please him?”

“ Who’s to say? I am no sage; I don’t know the answer to that. I will not lie to you and say she does seem to enjoy it.”

“ You’ve been here the longest, tell me, how long has she been with him?” The anger inside him felt as if it was coming to a boil.

“ Since she came her about six years ago, she slept in her own chambers one night, and then never again.”

Cyan did not know why but he couldn’t control it any more. He couldn’t rationalize it, but the anger became tangible, coiled inside him as a serpent before the strike, constricting his breathing and crushing his insides. Suddenly the sensation was gone, and everything around him became hazy. His vision faltered, and the sensation of raw emotion, raw feeling began to cover his body, spreading like wildfire about him, feeling as if he had just dove into a lake of fire. His eyes lost sight, and his ears lost sound, the sensation of the world collapsed around him, and everything became unreal.

Detached from himself, standing over his shoulder and seeing the room from a different view he saw Memos slowly, very slowly pull his hands to shield his face, and Maris do the same. He saw himself striking the table with his fist as hard as he could, his muscles rippling, as Memos and Maris jumped back, looks of shock covering their faces. The table shattered, splintering in the middle, sending slivers and shards of wood through the air. The rest of it splintered and cracked into a ‘v’ and Cyan saw his body, felt his body in the bath of emotion, the veins in his arms and chest glowing, standing out as they pulsed. The glow emanating from them was the same a Maris’s eyes, a bright, but cold blue. It frightened and confused him, and the sensation of standing apart and seeing life from behind his shoulder sickened him.

As soon as the feeling was there, it was gone, and he saw life from his own eyes again. He fell to his knees, feeling the raw emotion, the bath over his body suddenly gone, and the world thrusting itself around him again. Maris’s eyes glowed as he lay on his back, absently picking splinters from his leg as he stared at Cyan. Memos locked eyes with the young man and watched as fatigue suddenly set into him. Cyan looked around half mindedly, searching, feeling, and thinking about what had just happened. The blue glow pulsed and slowly crept from his veins.

“ She-hazar!” Was all Maris said as he stared wide-eyed.

“ The birth of the talent.” Memos whispered.

Cyan felt briefly pleased with himself, he was among those with the special magical gift. This pleasure was fleeting, and he collapsed onto the ground, lapsing into the world of dreams.



Chapter 5

The warrior’s most potent weapon is not his sword, but his mind. It may be honed and sharpened to an interminable edge, a thousand times more than any blade.
- Knights of Dawn axiom


Cyan awoke without even a headache. No fatigue, no soreness, nothing. He felt fine, as if he had gone to bed after an easy day and slept well. He sat up in his small bed and found Maris leaning against the wall tossing a rock into the air and catching it. When he noticed Cyan was awake, he stopped and his face was calm and serious.

“ May we speak of it?” His voice was flat, serious.

Cyan nodded, knowing what the question entailed, and was pleased that he was now among the people to whom it could be addressed.

“ The first time is always the worst.”

“ Was yours as violent?”

“ No.”

“ It felt as if I was not myself, as if I had no control.”

“ My first experience left me blind for about two days.”

“ But when you use it now, you are not blind?”

Maris shook his head. “ No. Over the years, I have learned about it, experimented with it, learned to control it.”

“ Was it difficult?”

“ In some ways yes. As difficult as it is to learn anything about one’s self. The way I regard my talent is that is as natural an extension of myself as my legs are. I had to learn walk when I was little, and I had to learn to control my talent when I was older.”

Cyan saw the logic in the argument. “ I’m not really sure all that happened, tell me.”

“ We were talking; you, I, Memos. You were angry. You got madder as we talked, and then you swung on the table. The veins lining your arms chest and shoulders all started to radiate a color such as my eyes do. Your punch shattered, not just broke, truly shattered the wood. It was such a blow that I would compare it to a hammer striking a piece of plank. It was almost as if you had blown it up instead of punched it. After that you wobbled, and passed out.”

“ How many people know?”

“ Everyone. The next day I was introduced to Lady Imona, and that was pretty much all we talked about.”

“ The next day?”

“ You’ve been asleep now for three days. No one could rouse you.”

Cyan nodded, surprised, but now he knew why he felt so rested. “ What did Lady Imona have to say about it?”

“ She of course wants you to learn how to control it. She feels you would make a better combatant if you knew how. I think one punch when you are like that would shatter a man’s ribcage, or even fold plate mail.”

Cyan nodded, stroking his chin, not surprised to find stubble. He had no idea how to learn to control this. He felt that if he had to get as mad as he was to invoke it again, he best leave it be.

“ What do you think Maris?”

The young mountain elf shrugged. “ Well, if they see it as an advantage, I imagine they’ll either treat you with a little more kindness “ he smiled “ or they’ll just find a way to eventually use it completely for their own gain.”

“ Lady Imona told me that here, she works with us, for us, that she -”

“ Has a business arrangement with us?” Maris interjected.

“ Yes.”

“ Cyan, it’s all well and good, but it’s just words. Words and horseshit amount to horseshit.”

“ You think it’s just her way of trying to buy us?”

“ Wouldn’t doubt it for a bit. She’s a snake.”

“ Seemed nice enough to me.”

“ She owns you. And the rest of us.”

Cyan nodded.

“ I really don’t see our best intentions as being the top of her priorities.”

“ I wish they were.” Cyan mused.

“ So do I.” Maris patted Cyan on the shoulder.

“ It seems things are different here though.”

“ Agreed, but still much the same as anywhere else.” Maris said, sitting on the bed beside Cyan.

“ I wonder why they don’t lock us in our rooms at night?”

“ I think it’s because of the dozen or so guards, Athrax, Ulrag, the fact that they are all armed to the teeth maybe. It’s that and we’re all damn near dead tired at the end of a day of training, and they probably think we’re all too stupid to attempt escape anyway.”

“ True. Don’t forget that the walls are three of me high.”

Maris laughed. “ True as well.”

“ So are you adapting here more so than in the pits?”

Cyan shrugged. “ I guess. It’s just here, more things have been happening, much faster than before. Nothing ever really changed in the pits. The only change was a new slave now and again, new conversations.”

“ But never good looking young women, and the birth of your She-Hazar?”

Cyan nodded.

“ All changing too fast.”

“ Yes. Tell me, what was it like, to be free one moment, and then wake a slave the next?”
Maris scratched the back of his neck. “ Depressing. I don’t know, just depressing. One minute I have life in front of me, the next, life out of my hands, in the whims of another's.”

“ Can I ask you a more personal question?”

Maris shrugged. “ I don’t see why not.”

“ When did you know that you loved Illyania?

Maris smiled. “ I see. Weighty question. Oh, I don’t know, I just did. it wasn’t anything she did, it was just her. I just knew. I always thought of her, still do, when she wasn’t around I wanted her to be, still do. I did stupid things to impress her, all the time. I felt like a fool around her, lesser, and I just wanted to be closer to her so that I might find out what made her so special.”

“ You just knew?”

“ Yeah, something like that.”

“ And you think of her all the time?”

“ Yes. Why do you ask, are you in love?”

Cyan shook his head no. “ No, I was just wondering. I am not in love, I am not even allowed to be in love. Slaves are not supposed to be know to such things.” He said with wry sarcasm.

“ Memos and Sherrill are.”

“ There is an exception to every rule.”

“ I am in love.”

“ Alright, two exceptions.

Maris smiled. “ You will be, someday. You’ll find it to be the greatest and most vexing of feelings.”

“ Vexing?” Cyan’s eyebrow rose.

“ Yes. You find that you blush, stammer, you do the dimmest things while you are in love.”

“ And it’s all worth it?”

“ Of course.” Maris smiled broadly.

“ How many children do you want?”

“ Many.” Maris spread his arms out. “ When I have enough to fill my arms until I can hold no more, then it shall be time to make no more, that is, time for no more kids, I shall still hope to go about making them with my wife.” He smiled again.

Cyan grinned and nodded. “ You will be a good father.” He said this even with no comparison of his own.

“ I hope so. My father was a good father, still is. If I could do half the job he has.”

“ He is a good man?” Cyan asked.

“ Yes. Judges no one until they give him reason. Wise, strong, but not a harsh man. He is
temperate, modest, he is everything I have ever aspired to be.”

Cyan nodded, wishing he had the same words to speak of his father. “ What about your mother?”

Maris shrugged. “ She died when I was very young. It was the year of the Desert’s Call I believe, I was about four.”

“ You have brothers, sisters?”

“ No, I am the last of my line.”

“ Your father has not remarried?

“ No, he loved my mother very much. He has said he made one pledge, and for the rest of his days he will hold true to it.”

Cyan wondered again as he often did which one of the slave mothers was actually his.

“ What was her name?

“ Arinanea. Elven for sun blessed.”

“ Very beautiful.”

“ Aye. She was named as thus because she was born in the dawn, in the year of the Sun’s
contemplation. I am told by my father her favorite thing was to hold me on our porch in the sunlight, and just feel the warmth come down upon us.”

Cyan smiled. “ Sounds wonderful.”

“ Truly. Well, I’ve been standing in this room since we ate evening meal, and it’s time for me to find some sleep. Be well my friend.” He stood up and playfully smacked the back of Cyan’s head as he walked out of the room.

Cyan stood up and stretched his muscles, tight from three days of sleeping. He had not noticed how imperiously hungry he was during his talk with Maris and hoped the kitchen still had some food left from evening meal. Walking out of his room he made his way to the privy and after doing his business took the dull knife, no good for fighting and quickly shaved the stubble from his face. All his life he had never really liked hair on his face and found it mostly to be an annoyance. In the Pits when he was rarely ever given access to even as dull a knife as this one, he had shaved with rocks that he would chip during the day. At first, it was quite painful, but as time grew on he had gotten used it, and had perfected his routine to the point of close shaves. It was one of the few things he could call his own, and never missed his daily routine of it. How dearly I hold such a vanity, my only true definition of myself.

He made his way down to the eating hall, noticing the new table that they had already put it in. Walking past it he went into the kitchen to find it unoccupied. Looking around he wondered if they would beat him for eating now, but reasoned they would not, for if they did not want him to they would have either locked him in his room, or at least locked the kitchen. He did notice the case with the carving knives was locked with a very sturdy lock however. Rummaging around he found some dry stores of meat and bread. Pouring water from the tall pot, he took his meal into the dining hall and quietly began to eat. It was not long before someone else joined him.
Briel walked in, past him, and into the kitchen. Moments later she returned with the same meal as his, and sat down across from him. She was wearing her work attire, and was dirty, her hair pinned up and going all angles. She smelled of heavy soap and wash water. He immediately looked down at his meal, blushing slightly from close proximity to her, and the fact the he still felt mad at her for being with Athrax.

“ Are you alright?” She asked.

“ Fine.”

“ Right. I heard what happened.”

He continued to eat slowly, not looking at her.

“ Alright, I’ll leave it be.”

They both eat for a few moments in silence, until she resumed conversation. “ How old are you?”

“ Seventeen winters.”

“ Right. Cyan, it’s okay, you can look at me.”

Shrugging, attempting to play it cool he looked up, immediately confronted with the fact that he did not have any idea how to act around her, or why he was acting so strangely to begin with.

“ Were you born a slave?” She continued.

“ Yes.”

“ Me too.”

He noticed how she ate. It was not like any other woman he had ever seen eat before. She was delicate with her food, each mouthful a small amount, each time she ate her mouth was closed, and she sat her fork down with each bite. He found it to be odd, but more proof of how she was different from every other slave woman he knew.

“ Like it here?”

“ It’s fine.” He almost stammered.

“ Hard work?”

He nodded.

“ Sore?”

He nodded again.

“ Right.”

They continued to eat in silence for another few minutes. He finished first and quickly stood up, banging his knee on the table. Wincing he took his plate to the kitchen and set it aside. Walking back out into the dining hall he nodded to her and quickly made his exit. He swore she giggled as he left, and it both excited and annoyed him.

***

Morning meal was uneventful. Memos and Sherrill were not present, and Pix ate quickly and left. Cyan and Maris traded small talk, and every time Briel came to bring food Cyan ignored her. After the previous nights exchange he did not know what to do around her. He did not understand her, or begin to know how. She angered him for what she did was Athrax, but she also made him feel for her just by her very nature. She was so different from what he knew, he knew that she stood out to him, and this must be why he felt so odd around her. He tried to put it out of his mind, but every time he attempted to do that, he thought more and more about his talent. How could he control it? Did he have any idea where to begin? Could he ever control it? He knew that the extreme anger her felt that night made it come out, but if that was what triggered it he never wanted to trigger it again.

He found that training took his mind off of his thoughts. Losing himself in the heat of the mock battles he did not have to think. He trained hard being so well rested, and even Memos took a few more hits from that day. He was not good by any means, but was slowly improving. Given a few years time, he might even be good. This is the way the Cyan saw it at least, he felt that his performance was lacking, and resolved to train harder tomorrow. The training made him calm, and cleared his mind. With the events surrounding him, he could ask for nothing more.
After training, as they walked to midday meal he was summoned by one of the guards to the forge, where Athrax stood waiting. The warrior held his whip in one hand, and gently slapped it against his leather glove. His face was curled into the same wolf smile that he always wore.

“ Awake finally. Good. Hope you enjoyed your little nap, because sleep will be forgotten here soon.”

Cyan stood and locked at the ground, bowing his head and readying himself for either a verbal or physical lashing. He had expected both.

“ You can’t just go around shattering tables whenever you get a little mad. I don’t care if this birthed your talent, for in my mind any talent you have is owned by us as well. I understand it’s impressive to see your talent at work, but let me warn you now. Ever attempt to use it on me, I'll cut your throat and watch you die.”

Cyan did not like him talking about his talent, and finally understood why it was such a social faux pas to do so. It made him feel odd when Athrax talked about his special inborn power, and he wished him to stop. The threat on his life passed over his head, as he thought about this. It was an odd feeling, because he was always being berated by his masters, no it felt as if Athrax talked about something forbidden, something that was no rights his to speak of.

“ In any case, you have more work now. Discipline is what you need. Ever day from now on you will report to the stables the second you are done with training. No midday meal for you. You will clean them, and make them spotless, or you will then clean them with your tongue. After you are done with them, you will clean the forge, and help the smithy with whatever he needs. When you are done with that, you will mop the dining hall clean, and then you may eat. Then you will sleep, and awake do it all again. Understood?”

Cyan nodded. The work would not be hard to him, and he quietly laughed at Athrax for thinking that it would be. In the pits, he worked with rocks, breaking, hauling, from sun up to sun down. There was no break for meals. While he enjoyed his brief time here of meals with his friends, he was not saddened that it would be no more. He would still eat with them at morning meal, and train with them. Perhaps the new work schedule would give him more to take his mind of things.
“ Now, get to work.” The warrior turned and walked away. Cyan worked the rest of the day, cleaning the stables first. It did not take him long, and was easy work. The smell bothered him at first, but his distaste for it was replaced by his liking for the horses. It was his first real experience with the beasts. There were nine in the stables, two that pulled the wagon he had come in on, three more that looked like workhorses, two that looked young, and had marks of heavy saddles, probably the mounts of some of the guards.

The last held at the far end of the stable were the most prominent of the group. One was a large warhorse, temperamental and well groomed. It was black, young, and well muscled. He felt that it must have been Athrax’s horse, and hoped the warrior treated it with more respect than he did the slaves. He must have for it was well fed, well worked, and in wonderful condition. It was a beast to be admired.

The last horse was smaller and it’s coat was sleek. Black and gray, it was a desert born horse, Cyan could tell by the brand of the nomadic desert peoples from the south. Even as slave, he knew the brand, for it was highly sought after and expensive. It was a good horse, young, strong, the mount of Lady Imona no doubt. It was further confirmation that she was indeed very rich.
The forge was his next assignment and it too was easy work, and he thought he would find it to his liking. The smithy barely talked to him, just pointing at what he wanted done as he continued to bang away at his work. Their speaking was limited to ‘do this’ and ‘don’t do that’. The smithy was not mean, he just seemed to want to be left alone, and Cyan respected that. He cleaned the forge, kept the firing running, and restocked the coal barrels and water casks. It was hot, but Cyan was desert born and did not mind. His work there took until past evening meal, and then he reported to the dining hall and mopped it clean, another easy task. Just as the evening before, he ate late, and this time alone. Aoi was high in the sky when he was finished so he went to his room, and lay in bed. It was some time for he went to sleep, for as he worked all day he did not dwell on thoughts of women, of talents, or of fighting. Now he was alone, and the world was quiet so his mind opened up with pent up force held back by the day. Eventually, he just shut it all away, and stared out his barred window at the moon until he went to sleep.

***

The training and the chores continued. The days past by quickly, occupied by his work and his training. He attempted to bring his talent to bear a few times, searching somehow to make the blue light appear again, but each time proved futile. He threw himself into his work, but the back of his mind was preoccupied with Briel, his talent, and when he would have to fight. Each night was filled with these thoughts converging in on themselves, and each night he went to sleep with no new answers.

As training continued Cyan found that the weapons of the knight best fit his hands, with a slight modification. He liked using the broad rapier, but the main gauche did not fit his style. Instead, taking a page from Maris’s book he used a hand axe. Maris taught him the basics of the weapon, and by no stretch was he good with it yet, but he was reaching competency.

It was Memos who taught him the most. He taught the young man the ways of single combat, instructed him on the feelings his body would hold when the time came for battle. He told him of the places to put his blade where it would kill a man swiftly, and where it would simply leave him a scar. He showed his the anatomy of men, their vulnerable points were little skin and bone protected vital places. He taught him how to immobilize foes with a hamstring, how to make a foe spout blood with an arterial strike, how to quickly kill a man with strikes to soft parts of the head. He taught him the tools necessary to kill.

The older slave was an excellent warrior, well versed in a variety of weapons. With Ulrag concentrating on their daily discipline, and Athrax watching periodically, Memos spent the majority of his time teaching what he knew to Cyan. He pinpointed the big man’s attributes: mobility, intelligence, and strength. He also showed the big man the truth of his weaknesses: speed, knowledge, and attitude. Memos explained that knowledge would be the easiest to come by; it was simply a matter of dedication. Speed would come with time, daily work towards increasing his speed. Attitude was a different story.

He taught him that his life would be on the line every time he held steel in his hands. This was the attitude that he must know, the attitude of a warrior. It was a kill or be killed world in the arena for the most part, with little or no quarter given. Memos taught him that he would be afraid, and fear was a healthy motivator. He taught him to let only as much fear as necessary enter his mind to keep him in the highest state of awareness. Fear could cloud reason, but when used to an advantage it could keep a warrior alive. Too much fear and he would buckle; too little fear and he would forfeit his life foolishly.

They spent the majority of the training regime together, the older slave taking him as a pupil. Cyan learned quickly, taking the man’s lessons to heart. His speed began to improve, soon he had gone from deadly slow to moderately quick. He had a long way to go before he was anywhere near the level of Memos, and a distance to go before he was near Athrax, but Cyan felt it would come in time. His muscles had to have time to get used to quick movements. They knew strength, but speed was foreign to them. He dedicated himself to this new art.

Memos taught him a style of fighting that used little art behind it, it was a simple, straightforward way of defending oneself, and killing the opponent. There was no flashy blade work involved, it was not the form of a Knight. His form was that of a warrior, fighting in single combat. It emphasized defense with deadly return strikes. Wounding was taught, but Memos stressed that compassion must rarely be present in battle; only present when Cyan knew it was warranted. Cyan adapted, learned this way, and was quickly becoming competent in the way of a warrior. The fear of the first battle still festered in the recess of his mind, but he began to become accustomed to the movements of fighting, his body reacting to it precognitivly, as if it knew the movements, but had hidden them, waiting for their time to be released.

The daily training regime and chores served to remove what fat he had on his body. It did not take long for his lean muscle to form into solid mass, and his strength was focused and improved, and his body loose. He grew stronger by every passing nightfall, his muscles trimming themselves into fighting shape. He lost the bulk around his body, replacing it with lean cut muscle. He found that his strength knew little bounds after a time, a vast untapped reserve. Where over the years repetitive work had formed his body in a certain way, the training molded this form into a new loose ready form, his muscles knotted cords wound and ready to strike. He was limber, able to twist his body in ways he had not before, able to bend and grab his toes with his legs straight, able to take his arms over his head and turn them around to touch his lower back. Working muscle had been sculpted into fighting muscle.

The daily bruises and welts suffered in the beginning were not present now, as he learned to dodge and parry effectively. Those blows that made it into his guard did not bruise him, they only toughened his skin. He was being molded into a warrior, but still in the back of his mind he feared the day he would put his skills into practice. He felt he would be just fine with training and never actually putting it to the test. The fatigue and soreness was gone, each night he went to bed tired, but not exhausted, the day’s toil making him stronger. His body was now used to the regime it was given, and he thought the extra work served to keep him in better shape, pushing him to his limits. The build of a worker forged in the pits was transformed into the build of a warrior.

Life was now a routine, and he was used to it. It was good from the standpoint that he could focus, and attempt to push the questions running free in his mind away. He got up every morning and stretched, spending at least ten minutes doing this. Each muscle was pulled and worked, readying for the day. He cleaned his teeth and shaved every morning before making his way to morning meal. Morning meal was the highlight of his day, when everyone else was groggily waking up; he was relishing his time with his first friends. Pix’s humor was something he looked forward to, Sherrill’s dark mood every morning, and Memos’s quiet laughter at her served to keep him going. His friendship with Maris was deepening, and he felt he truly had a close friend now. He continued to feel odd around Briel, and did his best not to notice or acknowledge her.

He would eat and then train, as hard as he could, throwing himself into Memos’s lessons. The fear of combat was still present, but he put it away just as did everything else. It seemed as time rolled on, day after day Ulrag was pushing them harder, and while Pix and Maris groaned, Cyan welcomed it. After training each day he would dutifully do his chores, and then retire to bed where his mind would open up once again.

On the forty- fifth day of his life at the compound the routine changed. He awoke in the morning as normal, and while stretching he found a small circular piece of wood painted red slipped under his door. He picked it up and went through the rest of his routine and went to morning meal.
The room was quiet as he walked in, and he noticed everyone seemed sullen. Pix was absently poking at his food, Maris stared at the wall, and Memos and Sherill sat close together, her head resting on his shoulder. Each one of them except Memos had the same small disk on the table in front of them.

Cyan sat down and set his disk on the table. “ What is this?”

Memos looked at him, his eye a little downcast. “ The marker. It means you have been selected to do battle tomorrow.”

It hit Cyan as hard as one of Ulrag’s punches. It had not dawned on him that he would have to fight, that the training was for a reason. He had been told so, but it did not register. Tomorrow he would have to fight with steel, and live by the sword. The idea that this place’s purpose was that had not sunk in yet, but now it had. He had to hold his throat tight and swallow hard not to vomit out of nerves.

“ You’ll do fine.” Sherill said, a uncharteristicly motherly tone in her voice.

“ To the death?” Cyan’s voice cracked as he looked at Memos.

“ No, the marker would be black if so. But let’s not lie, it can be brutal. It’s bloody work, people have lost arms, legs, and sometimes more.” His voice was gravely as he spoke. “ You fight to submission, or first blood, whatever the master of ceremonies calls for. If it for submission, then one fighter gives up and the other wins. Some give up easier than others, for fear their masters may look down upon them. And sometimes, accidents happen.”

“ I’m not ready.” Cyan said.

“ You have no choice. “ Sherill said.

“ I can’t, I don’t know what to do.” Cyan continued.

“ Hey!” Pix poked Cyan in the ribs with a fork. “ Stick with me, I’ll keep ya safe.” He brandished his fork menacingly while doing his best growl. Cyan couldn’t help but laugh, breaking the tension for everyone at the table. The rest of the meal was quiet but lighthearted, and they went to train as usual.

Cyan and Maris watched one of the most fearsome mock battles they had ever seen that afternoon. Sherill and Memos, although very much in love battled each other tooth and nail, offering no quarter to each other.

“ Beautiful isn’t it?” Maris said to Cyan.

“ How so?”

“ They’re so much in love, yet they beat the living hells out of each other.”

“ How is that beautiful?” Cyan laughed.

“ Because both realize that she must be ready tomorrow. He for some reason didn’t get the marker, but she did. We both know few could be his equal, and what better training than to fight him, which will make tomorrow’s bout easy by comparison.”

“ True.”

“ I imagine they make love as hard as they fight.” Maris said. Cyan blushed at the comment.

“ Does your woman fight?” Cyan asked.

“ Much better than I do, yes. She is a marksman with a bow, and not bad with a longsword either.”

Cyan nodded.

“ She trains with my cousin, Sir Alain Morningdew. I think you’d like him, he’s a knight.”

“ I have never even seen a knight.”

“ You’ll meet him someday, trust me. He is a honorable man, he even swore to protect Illyiana while I was away. He’s a master of the blade.”

“ Better than Memos?”

“ By far.”

“ How does one become a knight?”

“ I think you just petition and prove your worth. I’m not sure, he’d be able to answer it much better than I.”

Cyan nodded.

“ He’s a knight of the Dawn, have you heard of them?”

“ Yes.” Even Cyan had heard of the Knights of Dawn, sworn protectors of law and order for all the Empire. Oldest of all knightly orders they were formed by Sir Meric Cole some thousands of years before the present. They were the embodiment of virtue, and if what was said was true, they were truly good men and women to a ‘t’.

“ You ever thought about following your cousin’s footsteps?”

“ No, I’m not a warrior, regardless of what this place makes me. I hope to be like my father, old, wise, with many people around to talk to.

“ Sounds as a good life.”

“ It will be.”

Ulrag grunted and Maris was called to train with Pix. Cyan watched, deep in thought. As hard as he tried, he not picture himself old, wise, and with many people to talk to.

***

After training they were taken to the smithy and made to try out different sizes of armor. Pix and Sherill put the armor they always wore on, and made sure it still fit well. Sherill remarked it had been about thirty-five days since she last fought. Memos stayed with Cyan and Maris and helped them to find the armor that best suited them. Maris settled on a light leather armor packed with studs, and Cyan settled on the traditional half plate, half chain mail of the knights, keeping with the motif.

After they were fitted Cyan went about his chores, cleaning the stables and doing his work in the smithy. That night his work did nothing to block the thoughts of tomorrow, no matter how hard he tried. The work went slowly, and his mind was full. His normal routine broken, work was unpleasant and unfulfilling for the first time in a long time.

He went to do his last chore, the cleaning of the dining hall and found Briel half done with his work. He stood in the door confused until she turned and noticed him.

“ This is my task.” He said, his voice calm for once. He found he could suppress the excitement of being around her with the confrontation of his own mortality in a day to come.

She wiped a line of sweat from her brow. “ You fight tomorrow, I figured you might need the extra rest.”

“ I am commanded to do this.”

“ Athrax approved of my taking your place tonight, and would have you rested. I have already spoken with him.

“ I’m sure you have.” He spoke without thinking and regretted it the moment that he did.
She looked him in the eye and for a split second, he thought she he had hurt her. A mix of anger and depression flashed across her face then was gone.

“ Not all of us can be warriors. We do what we have to do to survive.” Her words dripped with malice, and Cyan felt her anger deep inside. She straightened her apron before she spoke again, this time her voice calm. “ I’ve drawn you a bath, and a towel has been laid out.” She turned back to her work.

He stood still for a moment, regretting what he had said. He was mad, and disappointed with himself. He stalked out of the hall and went to his bath, trying to clear his mind but failing.

He lay in bed for over two hours, the extra time to sleep wasted. His body was anticipating the next day, the feeling of butterflies dancing lightly on his skin. The sensation of anticipation made it hard to sit; and still sleep was made impossible. He cursed himself for what he said, he cursed himself for his outburst with his talent, he cursed his talent, and he cursed the fact that he was a slave. Finally, none of it mattered, as sleep took him.



Chapter 6

Death is the only freedom a slave ever has.
-Unknown Taskmaster
Even in death the master sells our bodies.
-Unknown Slave

Cyan woke up and went through his morning routine as if nothing was different about the day. He arrived at morning meal clean-shaven with a clam expression on his face. Pix was not so patiently waiting for his food, fidgeting with one of his long yellow fingernails. Maris sat across from Cyan, and looked like he had gotten the same amount of sleep, or lack thereof. Nonetheless he was positive, and his expression was casual and laidback. Sherill and Memos were not present.

“ Battle day means the best food.” Pix said as Cyan sat down. “ They give us a whole slab of meat to eat, as much as we can fill ourselves on!” Looking around capriciously he said, “ I’ll eat what you don’t.” He smiled a yellow-toothed grin.

Cyan nodded and inhaled deeply, taking the smell from the kitchen to heart. Indeed it did smell good, and it seemed they would be eating well today.

“ Have you been in many battles Pix?” Maris asked.

“ Pix has fought eighteen times and won twelve of them!” Thumping his chest as he spoke.

“ How did you lose the six?” Cyan asked.

Narrowing his eyes Pix responded, “ The other guys cheated.”

Cyan left it at that and turned to Maris. One look between them said enough. Briel brought food trays forth and it was more than enough to feed the three of them twice over. That is, until Pix started on his fifth plate. After Cyan was finished he absently watched the gobbeley devour his food, shoving handful after handful into his small mouth. His green-brown face was caked with bits of beef and cheese, and his stomach was bloated by the time he was done. More than once Pix belched loudly.

“ Were are Memos and Sherill?” Cyan asked.

Pix picked a piece of carrot from his teeth and after looking at it swallowed it. “ They never come to eat on battle days. They uh, sleep in.”

“ Why wasn’t Memos chosen today?”

“ They are selective about when he fight. Master does not want him to lose. Memos has not lost in a long time.” Pix belched again, loudly.

“ So they rarely have him fight?” Maris asked.

“ No no, “ Pix shook his head furiously “ Only fight him when he will win.”

“ And they’re not sure he will win today?”

“ Dunno? Maybe he not win?” Loudly, he belched again. Cyan was beginning to notice that the gobbeley’s belches smelled worse than the gobbeley itself.

A grunt from the doorway got their attention. Ulrag stood there, motioning his large meaty hand for them to follow. Standing, they obeyed and were lead to the courtyard were the slave wagon waited. Getting in, Sherill was already inside waiting. When they were seated the doors were closed and latched.

“ Do you know who we’ll be fighting today?” Maris asked Sherrill.

She shook her head no.

“ No matter who fight, I win.” Pix said before belching.

“ Unless they cheat.” Maris chimed in.

The gobbeley nodded knowingly.

“ How long before we fight?” Cyan asked.

“ We suit up and get ready by late day, and usually battle about twilight.” Sherill responded.

“ What about all the time before that?” Maris asked.

“ We wait.”

Cyan realized the waiting would be hell itself, but having no choice in the matter, he accepted it and moved on.

They rode the rest of the way in silence all preoccupied with thoughts of what was to come. It wasn’t before they stopped that Cyan realized he could have looked out the barred window and seen the town, and chided himself for missing the opportunity. The doors were unlatched and opened and before them was a large sandstone wall set with two double doors, and beside it Athrax and Ulrag.

The pair herded them through the door and down many sets of steps, into a large damp torchlight room with benches and a water basin. It smelled of a mixture of sweat, moss, and stagnant water set deeply into old stone. Cyan felt they were underground somewhat, and the room was quite cool. There were six benches, each about two men long lining the walls, and the water basin was set into the middle of the room, about the size of a large cooking pot. Set into the ground in front of it was a metal grate. Besides the door they came in, there was one other door opposite it on the far wall. The group of them took benches and sat as Ulrag hauled down four heavy sacks and gently set them to the floor. Ulrag turned and returned up the stairs, leaving them with Athrax who paced about the room.

“ Make yourselves at home. “ He barked.

“ Who do we fight today?” Sherill asked.

The armor-clad warrior shrugged. “ A few new fighters, and one experienced freeman.”

“ Who?” Sherill continued.

“ Vizarn.” Athrax replied.

“ I have fought him before, he should not be too much of a challenge.”

“ Well,” Athrax sighed, as if talking to her was a great burden put upon him “bitch you won’t be fighting him so you needn’t worry about it.” Cyan saw Sherill put her anger in check quickly, but the rage was apparent across her face.

“ Who will?” She continued, her face twitching slightly.

“ Cyan.”

“ Your putting him against Vizarn, he has over twenty fights to his name! Who’s idea was-.”

“ Shut up.” Athrax cut her off. “ It is my lady and your masters will. You all seem to think you have a choice in the matter. You will do” he let the word hang for emphasis “as you are told, or else. You all will be fighting in single combat today. Pix first, Maris second, you third, and Cyan fourth.”

“ But its doesn’t-“ Sherill continued.

Athrax held up a gloved finger to silence her. “ Do shut up. You have no opinion.” He stared at her for a moment, and for a brief second Cyan thought she would fight him, but she held her anger in check. This is his greatest pleasure. Cyan thought, once again feeling his dislike, almost hate for Athrax wash over his body. Sherrill pursed her lips and danger flashed all over her face. Cyan saw the daggers in her eyes, and then it was gone as she bowed her head. Ulrag returned with his arms loaded by a long sack cloth. He laid it down gently beside the other four sacks and spread out the contents. They were all weapons, all made of steel. Swords, knives, and axes. Ulrag returned moments later and set out halberds and staves. Cyan saw all of this and had no idea how any fight with such obviously real weapons could be to anything but the death. He hoped the armor he chose truly would protect him. He could need see how men armed with steel could not but maim or kill an opponent. These were not wooden practice weapons, these were real, hard metal, and the edges held sharp. Small fear began to work its way over him.

Ulrag opened up the remaining sacks and set their armor out on the floor. When he was done he picked up a large double bladed battle axe and sat down beside the door on the far wall and closed his eyes. Athrax turned and surveyed the room, taking each of their measures.

“ Alright louts. Remember this, you are here to fight. If I don’t see you claw tooth and nail to win, then you shall fight me without the luxury of such fine weapons. Good luck to all of you.” He looked each one of them over again and turned and walked out the door Ulrag sat beside. The group was quiet for about five minutes.

“ Insufferable ass.” Sherill spat.

Maris and Pix snickered.

“ Son of goat’s whore.” Maris giggled.

“ Donkey.” Pix continued.

They all laughed, even Cyan, and the mounting tension and anxiety was broken for a few minutes.

“ Sherill, I have a question. How exactly are we supposed to not kill each other with these weapons?” Maris asked, voicing Cyan’s mental query.

“ Most of those we fight are as we are, unwilling participants. They do not wish to die, nor do they wish to kill. It is an unwritten rule if your opponent bears the slaves mark, fight and make the battle look good, but do not try to kill. Subdue, break bones if you have to, but do not end them. Try to knock them out. You would hope to expect the same from them.”

“ And if they don’t bear the slave’s mark?” Maris continued.

“ Kill or be killed. Do what you have to do to survive. This is the law of life. Some people come to trials who are freemen, just to fight and earn money. They care not whether you wear the mark or not.”

“ Does Vizarn wear the mark?” Cyan asked.

Sherill shook her head. “ No he does not. But don’t worry, he’s sloppy, too aggressive. You should do fine.”

Maris stood and began to pace, flexing and stretching his muscles as he walked. “ I imagine that so called healer Chesir mends our injuries?” Maris said.

“ Healer.” She said it with as much disdain as when she spoke of Lady Imona. “ He makes sure we do not lay down long. His magic’s are powerful.”

“ He is a mage?” Cyan asked.

“ Yes. I imagine you have not encountered one before?”

“ No.”

“ Trust me, if all were like him, they may all rot in the hells.” She spit on the ground as she finished speaking.

***

Time passed in the dank room, the only break in the quiet was Pix snoring as he lay sprawled on a bench. Ulrag never moved, his eyes still closed. Maris still paced and stretched, his unease beginning to show. Sherill wet her hair in the basin and then stretched out on a bench and closed her eyes. Cyan simply sat, trying to quell his breaking nerves. He could not prevent his hands from shaking, and he could feel his heart beating faster than it should.

The time past as slow as the ages, and Cyan’s mood did not improve. Eventually someone knocked twice on the door and Ulrag’s eyes opened and he grunted, pointing at the armor. Sherill sat up, as if expecting this at this very time, and kicked Pix in the side lightly on her way over to hers. In turn they helped each other suit up, Pix in his light leather chest protector and leggings, Sherill in her studded leather and chain suit, Maris in his light leather greaves and chest piece, and Cyan in his half plate mail and chain.

The armor Cyan wore was a little tight, but was well put together. The breastplate was steel, shined, with few knicks in the metal. Under it was the chain mail, which covered his chest, shoulders, and waist. Underneath that was a thin layer of leather and cotton. His shoulders were then covered in steel plate pieces with upper arm guards. Each forearm was fitted with a leather guard, finishing in studded leather gloves. It was thick, and would grip a weapon firmly. A last chain mail swath extending down to his knees, almost like an apron, covered his crotch. His thighs were then plated in steel pieces, ending just above his knees. He wore heavy leather boots, and no helmet. Even though he was nervous, he had never felt the odd sensation of putting on armor, it was powerful, exciting, and frightening because he knew he was to do battle.
Sherill picked up a halberd and began to stretch with it, her lean muscles flexing. Cyan noticed how in control she was, yet behind it he sensed that even she was a little nervous, maybe even worried. He wondered how many times she had fought without Memos present. Pix took up his shortsword and stabbed at the air a few times before setting it aside and falling back asleep. Maris walked to the far corner of the room and knelt down, his head bowed.

Cyan watched Maris, but could not see what he was doing as his back was to him. His hands were to his face, and he saw his body twitch more than once, and then set his hand axe down on the ground. His head bowed, Cyan watched him kneel his face down all the way to the ground, burying his face into his hands. This lasted for a few minutes and then he stood and turned around. His face was now calm, resolved, and Cyan was not sure, but he thought perhaps he had prayed, a thing forbidden to slaves. From birth they were denied the gods, and their teachings. Cyan knew Maris was not a born slave, and wondered if the gods allowed him to pray to them because of this. Cyan did not understand prayer, or the gods. It was said the gods did not smile upon slaves, and would not give them their blessings. This did not bother Cyan, but prayer did intrigue him. As Maris walked closer Cyan saw his face clearly. Besides the calm resolve he had made fine cuts into his cheeks and forehead. Not deep, just enough to draw blood. Maris had smeared the lines of blood into an upside down horseshoe on his forehead and three wavy lines on each cheek. On his chin, running up his nose to just between his eyes he had smeared a long streak of wet dirt. The whole arrangement had some meaning, but Cyan did not know what, and did not see a point in asking, for he saw the result. Maris was calm, and resolved. Cyan reasoned the gods did favor him because he was not born a slave, and these markings must have been made to garner their favor. Nodding to himself he accepted this and turned back to his thoughts.
One knock came from the door and Pix sat up, his sleep gone. He hopped down from his bench and walked over to Ulrag. The door opened and Athrax stood in it, Pix held out his shortsword and Athrax took it and moved aside. Pix walked out the door and Athrax closed it behind him, following.

Silence reigned over the room. Maris had sat down and closed his eyes, his head bowed once again. Sherill had not moved in about half an hour. Cyan sat still, his heart beating loudly. The silence was too much. He stood and paced, walking over the weapons eventually. He saw a short, well built hand axe and picked it up, testing the weight. He found a broad rapier, the only one on the table, and picked it up as well. It was his first time to hold a steel weapon.

The broad rapier was a cross between the longsword and rapier, developed by the Knights of Dawn many years ago. They had seen merit in the quickness of the rapier, and the length and heft of the longsword. Time had lead them to the perfect amalgamation of the two, a pointed, longer, thicker bladed version of the rapier, the broad rapier. Still quick, but with all the advantages of the long sword. It had a swept back hilt, covering the fist three fingers back in a layer of netted steel. The blade itself was nicked and well used, but sharp and oiled.
Cyan didn’t bother to practice swing the weapons. He was sure that he would drop both of them he was so nervous. He wondered if his talent would come to bear today, but realized anger would have to provoke it, and he was not angry, but feeling complete anxiety and cowardice. He felt like a frightening scared little boy, and was ashamed by it, but could do nothing about it. He’s hands shook all the more.

Time crawled, seeming to go as slow as the changes of the seasons. The door finally opened, and Athrax walked in and motioned to Maris, who stood up and followed. He walked to the door and handed Athrax his weapons as Pix had and walked out.

“ Where, uhm, where, is Pix?” Cyan stammered, losing control of his voice.

Athrax smiled, making Cyan feel even more like a little boy. “ None of your concern boy.” He turned and followed Maris out the door, slamming it behind him. Cyan stood staring at the door his heart beating rapidly. He was covered in a cold sweat now, and his body was so tense he felt as if he would break in half. He was sure he was going to die, and no doubt even attempted to cloud his mind. The fear welled up inside him, covered him like a cloak. It smothered him, controlled him, and ruled him. He searched for a way to relieve the tension, to put it away, but that made his heart race more.

Then he felt shame as he had never felt it before as the warm trickle of urine traced down his leg and pooled at his feet. The cold sweat covered him and the smell mixed with the acrid urine and he felt as if he would vomit. He looked at Ulrag, and the half ogre still lay still with his eyes closed. He felt shame in his mind, body and soul, it quickly gave way to despair. Tears began to fall down his face, slowly, and then fell quickly from his eyes and his shoulders heaved and he quietly sobbed. The tears splashed lightly in the pool at his feet, and he dropped his weapons.
He felt two calloused hands go to his cheeks. Opening his eyes he staring into Sherrill’s eyes, and her face was so motherly it hurt him.

“ Shh, shh, c’mon darling you’ll be fine.” She took one hand from his cheek and took some of her long hair and gently dabbed at the tears running down his face. He felt so small, so hurting, but at the same time, so warm. He was not six and a half hands tall and strong enough to lift an oxcart, but a little boy, innocent to all that his life was. She pulled his head down onto her shoulder and gently stroked his neck, lightly rocking him back and forth. He didn’t care if Ulrag or Athrax saw, saw his shame, saw him cry, he never wanted the warm feeling to end. He cried into her shoulder until he needed to cry no more, and she gently rocked him and soothed him. Soon, his sobs ceased, and she let him go. Her face was warm, and her smile was the smile of a mother, a smile that touched him deeply. She was not his comrade or his friend, or Memo’s woman as she kissed him lightly one the forehead and dabbed the last tear from his face. She walked over to the basin and poured water into the pool at his feet, washing it away to the grating so no one would know. She returned and took both of his hands in hers.

“ You will be fine, and you will live.” Her voice was calm and even, and it spoke to him from his childhood, and he remembered the slave mothers.

He nodded and smiled, the tension gone from his body.

“ You will live.” She smiled. “ Before every battle Memos says to me ‘You will live because I have the world to give to you, and I refuse to give the world to anyone else.’” Her smile broadened. “ Cyan, you will live because the world will give it self to you. You will live.”
He nodded and straightened himself, still a little nervous, still a little frightened, but resolved. He felt calmed and strengthened by her words. However he almost wanted to cry again, not out of fear, not out of shame, but because no one had ever made him feel the way she just had. No one since he was little had shown him such true kindness, and in one moment made everything all right for the time being. It had touched him in a place that he thought was gone long ago, a place slaves were not allowed to have. He would remember that moment from now until he died, whether it be in the trials that day, or many years later.

She picked up his weapons and handed them to him. The moment was over, and the motherly expression was gone from her face, replaced by the look of a warrior, and Cyan could see her for the passionate warrior she was. She would not lost this day, and Cyan could not see her ever losing a battle with her determination. She had just given him a small part of that heart, that passion, and he was resolved to use it as she would. He would not back down, he would fight, and he would win.

The door opened and Pix shuffled in. He was alive, and had all his limbs. Cyan’s heart had skipped a beat when the door opened, thinking it was for him. He looked Pix over and the gobbeley was hurt, but not badly. He had a fresh bandage on his scalp, and left arm, with spots of blood on each. He looked tired, hurt, and broken in spirit. He walked past Sherill and Cyan muttered what sounded like curses in another language. Falling like a sack of potatoes to his bench he spit to the floor and began unbuckling his armor.

“Damned sons of goats cheated.” He grumbled, stripping his last layer of armor off. Sherrill chuckled quietly, and Cyan’s mood improved slightly. Pix lay back down on the bench and was quickly snoring, ever once and awhile cursing in his sleep.

The door opened again and Cyan turned. Athrax stood in the doorway, leering at him. “ C’mon boy, no time like the present.”

Cyan did not move.

Athrax looked at Cyan’s weapons and then down at his own. A leering smile crossed the warriors face.“ Give me a reason.” His voice was so cocky, so inviting, so begging it seemed to drip down his chin. “ I’d just as soon have you dead here as up there, makes no difference to me. Cyan briefly considered the invitation a vision of Athrax’s head ripped clean from his shoulders, but dismissed it. He shook his head no and walked forward, handing his weapons to the warrior, pommels first. He went through the door into a long hallway that stretched upward, and Athrax followed, slamming the door behind him.


Chapter 7

For all the glory of winning the Imperial Fighters Cup, and the honor of the Emperor himself freeing me; I would have traded it all to have known the children I made while in captivity.
- Robert Barret Flynn, Imperial Fighters Cup Champion 1953 I.R


The walk up the stairs in the dimly lit corridor was the longest walk of his life. It seemed the actual arena floor must have been miles away as he plodded up the stairs. In truth it was not long, less than a minute, but to Cyan it seemed as ages.

When he crested the last step the dim light from the arena crept down the corridor and fell onto him. Athrax stood at the top of the stairs beside him and nodded forward. Cyan continued to walk. When he breached the last archway he felt he might be ready for what he was about to see. He wasn’t. Before him was a storm of humanity, and himself the eye. He had expected a bowl shaped arena, much like the profile he saw in the distance from Imona’s window, with flat ground walled in, surrounded by stands. Instead before him stood a set of stone stairs, not sandstone but granite, about three men wide, extending four men high up onto a wooden platform. The ground beneath was packed dirt, surrounded by fifteen hand high walls that separated the raised disk from the crowd. The drop to the recessed dirt below the platform was a good five men, and would most likely end in broken bones. The size of the platform was comparable to four wagons laid down in a square.

The audience was loud. Their voices formed together into one cacophonous maelstrom of sound, the loudest sound Cyan had ever heard. It echoed off the stone stairs and the raised platform, swirling in the arena and amplifying it fivefold. The rows of people started at the wall top and extended back about sixty deep. Cyan guessed that perhaps twenty thousand people were present, ranging from lower class seated up close to the walls, to middle class merchants, and the wealthier seated in box seats far behind. The lower class up close was to a man armed with various types of rotten fruit, their acrid smell already staining Cyan’s nose. As he walked out before the stairs most jeered at him, and some even threw the fruit at him, one hitting him on the shoulder, splattering red, rotten sludge down his arm.

He started up the stairs, his legs feeling like blocks of iron from nervousness. He attempted to keep his head held high, but found his hands were more the problem, as they would not stop shaking. He reached the top to see he was alone. As he stood looking out over the crowd he truly felt all eyes on him. He had to fight himself not to vomit from the anxiety he felt. The platforms edge was drawing closer to him as he felt a wave of vertigo hit, when it passed he saw the edge was at least ten hands from the wall, so escaping through the crowd was not an option.
He looked out over the people, his eyes burning in his face, as did his whole body. He did not see faces, but saw the snarling teeth and bright eyes of wolves, hungry for his blood. He shook and he waited. Soon, another man crested the stairs opposite him. The man was a little older than him, and walked with an air of confidence.

Vizarn held himself well, and the crowd cheered. His muscles were full, lean, and he looked quick. He was girded in studded leather armor with heavy plate forearm guards with half finger long spikes. The buckles on his armor were shiny, and the leather was well oiled. His hair was shaved into a Mohawk, and the scars he wore signified his prowess for survival. In his hands was a shield, small with an iron spike set in the middle, and a longsword, trimmed with a faux gold crosspiece. As he stood for the crowd he threw his arms into the air and yelled an incomprehensible war cry and the crowd clamored it’s appreciation. Cyan stood and watched, shaking.

Vizarn began to circle the young man, staring at him. His eyes bore into Cyan like the sword he carried, and his sword arm was already held at the ready. Cyan shook and watched him circle. Uneasily he began to counter circle his opponent, slowly drawing the two of them closer. He held his broad rapier in the position Memos had taught him, and his axe the way Maris had instructed. The slowly came closer.

They came closer, the blood racing in Cyan’s body, his mind hoping to desperately get this over with soon and come out alive. Cyan knew Vizarn sensed his fear, and he did not care. He couldn’t hide his fear no matter how hard he tried, so he let himself shake. They got within a few hands of each other and Vizarn twitched his sword arm and Cyan completely overcompensated, jumping back. The crowd jeered and Vizarn howled, laughing. Cyan felt more the fool than ever.
Once again, they resumed and came in close together, Cyan moving slowly, defensively. Vizarn dashed forward, shield first and swung his sword towards Cyan’s torso. Somehow, Cyan got his sword up and glanced off the shield, while the longsword slashed into his left shoulder biting through flesh and muscle. The pain assaulted him and he dropped the hand axe, and pitched backward, almost falling down.

Vizarn was still coming, and the pain was bold, more of an opponent now than Vizarn. He felt his blood course down his arm, and sensing impending death at Vizarn’s hand swung wildly with the broad rapier. Vizarn jumped back, and looked hungrily as he began to circle Cyan once again. The pain continued to shot lightning bolts through his arm and blood formed a river that was quickly making a lake at his feet. The crowd roared it’s appreciation, and Cyan realized this was not a first blood match, but to submission, which meant he was probably dead. Cyan shook and felt tears come to his eyes as the stinging pain set in.

Vizarn stabbed forward and Cyan haphazardly slapped his blade to the side, dodging a sure running through. He tried hard to remember everything that was taught tom him and realized technique didn’t matter, it was instinct, and right now he had no instinct to fight. He saw no way to get out of it but through death, and he felt if he lost too much more blood, that would come soon.

Vizarn pressed forward and Cyan backpedaled and swung wildly to parry. His parries were awkward, but effective. Five minutes of this went on, as Cyan clutched his arm in between sword blows while he let Vizarn run him all over the ring. His left arm was pale now, and blood was all over the wood ground. He was sure that much blood could not have come from him and wondered how he was still standing. He had been cut three more times, none as deep as his shoulder, but all painful. His right arm held a slash across it, just between his elbow and shoulder plate. His chin was bleeding from a stab that would have split his skull, and his leg was bleeding from a deflected blow aimed for his heart. He had not picked up the hand axe and was sure he couldn’t even make his left hand grasp anything at this point. He wanted to get it over with, but more importantly he wanted to live.

A mistake ended the contest, and to Cyan’s utter shock it wasn’t his. As before Vizarn lead with his shield, charging at Cyan full force. However this time as he lunged in and Cyan bashed his shield with his sword, Vizarn slipped in the pools of Cyan’s blood, flipping backwards and landing on his skull. Cyan was shocked, but saw opportunity for what it was. Lunging forward he pressed the tip of his broad rapier into Vizarn’s throat, just under his chin. Cyan drew his first blood from Vizarn not on purpose, but because his hand was shaking so badly.
“ Submit.” Cyan’s voice wobbled, was weak, and sounded far off.

A stream of obscenities in a language Cyan did not know came from Vizarn’s mouth, and cursing he tossed his weapons away. He closed his eyes and spit to the side, continuing his tirade. Cyan stared down at him for a moment, almost delirious, and the crowd roared. Not knowing any better he held his sword up high in the air and they roared all the louder. He stood for a moment, wobbling, bleeding before he lowered the weapon, and began to make his way to the stairs. As he walked away from Vizarn the prone cursing warrior was pelted with all sorts of gone bad food items, which only served to make him curse louder. Cyan walked over and picked up his hand axe, holding it in his right hand with his broad rapier.

He made his way down the stairs slowly, leaving drops of blood on every step on his way down. As he reached the archway Athrax stood there with his arms cross and what Cyan thought was a proud smile, until he realized it was a sneer. He absently turned his eyes to the cut on his shoulder and realized that he was looking at a mass of split open flesh, with torn, ripped muscle, and his exposed, chipped shoulder bone. He stared at it for a moment, vomited, and the last thing he remembered was his face getting hit by the ground very hard.