Reign of Shadows - Deborah Chester [123]
“If he lost his arm, like the guards said, then he’s a dead man.”
Another man spat on the floor. “It’s the giant’s curse what’s to blame.” He pointed at Caelan. “He hit Nux, hurt him somehow.”
Caelan wanted to tell them it was probably Nux’s visit to the haggai that had sapped his strength, but he held his tongue. They were all like rats in a cage that seemed to shrink daily. Caelan was feeling crazy from being cooped up in the gloom all the time. He needed exercise and sunlight, not just halfhearted drills in a stinking, half-lit tunnel where the guards took them twice a day.
That night when the lots were drawn, Caelan was missed again. No one spoke a word as the guards noted names and numbers, but the fighters’ eyes lingered on him with clear hostility.
He sweated through the night, afraid to sleep, certain they meant to throttle him in his bunk. But no one moved against him. In the morning, they huddled together in a conference that he pretended to ignore, but he could not relax. Not this time, not when they blamed him irrationally for Nux’s death.
The lock turned with a noisy rattle, and the door was slammed open. “On your feet!” bawled a guard with a list. “Bulot, Mingin, Hortn, Rethe, Chul. Move it, now!”
The named men shuffled for the door, yawning and stretching and scratching. But the others were up as well. They closed in on Caelan and shoved him forward. “He goes too!”
“What?” The guards frowned. “Not unless he’s on the list”
“He’s on today’s list,” someone insisted. “Let him take Chul’s place. He ain’t fought once this—”
“Neither have you, Lum,” the guard retorted. The spokesman turned red but he didn’t back down. “Let the giant take Chul’s place. He don’t belong in here with us. He ought to have been fighting with the other trainees, days ago.”
The guard’s frown deepened. He peered at Caelan. “I don’t know you. Name?”
“Caelan.”
“You’re no veteran.”
“No.”
“Never fought!” someone yelled gleefully. “Never even held a sword in his pinkies!”
They roared with laughter.
The guard was looking very stern indeed. “What in hell’s name are you doing in here?”
Caelan shrugged. “I was put here.”
“Don’t get cute.” The guard glanced over his shoulder at his companion. “You heard of any special orders about this one?”
“No.”
“Let him fight!” the gladiators cried. “Let him fight!”
The guard hesitated, then shoved Chul back, into the room. He jerked his head at Caelan. “Come on, then, if you’re so eager. Move!”
Suddenly it was happening. Caelan’s ears roared, and his head seemed to be floating above his body.
He found himself pushed down a tunnel lit by torches. He felt hungry, but he knew it was nervousness that gnawed in his belly. Sweat broke out across his body. His clothes felt too tight. His eyes were burning, and he couldn’t see well. His hearing was even worse.
Somewhere, they were stopped in a gloomy chamber with the rest. Twelve men who might have practiced and eaten together the day before, but who now avoided each other’s eyes, conscious of what was to come.
In silence, they stripped off their clothes and put on minimal loincloths. Little flasks of oil stood rowed on shelves. The men smeared the greasy stuff over every inch of themselves, and Caelan followed suit, aware that the oil would make him harder to hold and therefore harder to kill in a clinch.
The door banged open, and Caelan jumped about a foot, his heart hammering foolishly. One of the fighters noticed his reaction. He nudged someone else, and they chuckled softly together.
The sound had an evil, hostile quality that made Caelan swallow hard.
Orlo came in, flanked by four other trainers. Bald and burly, he stood with the cattail club in one hand, his feet braced wide and his other fist on his hip. He glared at each of them in turn.
When he saw Caelan, he blinked and dropped his jaw. In that instant, explanation was revealed in his face. He had clearly forgotten about putting Caelan in with the veterans. It was as simple as that.