Shadow War - Deborah Chester [88]
A club thudded into his shoulder, knocking him sideways. Caelan struggled up, but before he could completely turn around, another blow drove him down. Surrounding him, the guardsmen bludgeoned him to his knees.
Stunned and knowing he was in trouble, Caelan slashed with his sword and cut a man in the leg. That guardsman stumbled back, yelling in pain as blood splashed across the floor. Caelan grinned to himself and tried again to regain his feet.
They closed in on him. A numbing blow crashed into his forearm, and he dropped his sword from nerveless fingers. He scrambled to pick it up with his right hand, but a guardsman kicked it out of reach. Caelan lunged after it, but he was kicked back.
Black stars danced across his vision. Shaking his head to clear it, he struggled up only to be slapped by a heavy net that settled over his head and shoulders.
“No!” he shouted furiously, but the net was already over him.
A swift jerk pulled him over onto his side. They had him then, trussing him expertly with thick ropes before he could scramble free.
Struggling still, consumed with rage and intense fear, Caelan cursed them in Trau. Sweat and blood were running into his left eye, half blinding him. He heaved himself up, despite his bound arms, and rolled to his knees.
The guardsman working the net jerked again, expertly, and sent Caelan crashing onto his side again. The world grew dark and blurred, and by the time he managed to blink things back into focus the officer had come up and planted his boot on Caelan’s neck.
“Have done, man. You’re caught,” he said.
Caelan lay there with his sweat and blood smearing across the polished floor. Shame flooded him, and he would have wept in humiliation had his pride not burned all his tears away.
Around him the guardsmen put up their weapons and wiped their perspiring faces with looks of relief.
“Murdeth, what a fighter,” one said.
The man whose leg was still bleeding freely looked up from his efforts to staunch the wound. “What do you expect? He’s a gladiator.”
“Still, five against one—”
“Silence,” the officer said sharply. “You, see to the wagon. You, get that wound bound up quickly.”
Saluting, the men assigned moved to obey. The rest stood alert, as though aware that Caelan would fight again at the first opportunity.
The household servants crowded into the doorway. Craning their necks, they chattered among themselves. Caelan saw Orlo among them with his blocky shoulders and shaven head, looking like a thundercloud.
“Orlo!” Caelan called out, but the trainer only glared at him and shook his head in pity.
“Orlo, for Gault’s sake—”
“Silence!” The officer ground his foot harder into Caelan’s neck, almost choking him. His gold rank stripes glittered on the shoulders of his crimson cloak. His eyes were as brutal as the desert. “Caelan E’non—slave and property of his imperial highness, Prince Tirhin—you are arrested on charges of willfully turning upon your master with intent to harm, on charges of striking your master’s face and person, and on charges of—”
“No!” Caelan shouted. Wildly he looked around, but he saw condemnation on every face. “Who makes these charges?” he demanded. “Who claims these lies?”
“As a slave you have no rights, not even the right to know who has accused you,” the officer said.
“If it was not my lawful master, I demand to know,” Caelan insisted defiantly. “You cannot arrest me without the knowledge and consent of the prince.”
But Agel’s voice rose over his. “I laid the charge,” he said, appearing at the doorway. He looked composed and stern as he stood there in his white robes. His eyes held nothing at all. “His highness lies unconscious, grievously injured. The servants will testify that this slave brought the prince home in such a state. It proves his guilt.”
“No!” Caelan said, the denial bursting from him. “I did not hurt his highness, as he will tell you once