Reign of Shadows - Deborah Chester [99]
“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 trainersaid. 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!”
Chapter Eighteen
AT 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