Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [98]
“Skylan Ivorson has grown up, my friend,” Skylan said quietly. “Torval willing, the other will never return.”
Keeper blew a whistle and the practice started all over again.
It was late afternoon before Keeper called a halt. The Torgun sank to the ground, limp with exhaustion from standing and jumping and running and fighting in the hot sun.
“You must get used to it,” Keeper told them. “In the arena, you will be fighting on the field, with a roaring fire burning in the center.”
They were too tired to give a damn. Zahakis had orders to take Aylaen back to be with her sister. She had gained some color in her face during the practice, but the moment she saw Zahakis walking toward her, she went livid.
“Refuse to go back,” said Skylan.
Aylaen cast him a desperate, fearful glance. Then she shook her head and went off with Zahakis.
Skylan had never been so exhausted, not even after fighting in the shield wall. Every muscle ached and burned. His head throbbed from the heat. He was bruised and bleeding. Every step required an effort and they had a long walk back to the slave compound.
He made no complaint, however, nor did any of the Torgun. Grimuir had stepped in a gopher hole and twisted his ankle. Sigurd had to stop on the way to throw up. Young Farinn’s breath came in pain-filled gasps and he held his hand pressed against his ribs. Aki stifled a groan as he walked through the tall grass. Bjorn had to practically carry Erdmun. But they felt better than they had picking up rocks. Our honor is in our hearts. . . .
Skylan was looking forward to collapsing, when Keeper called out to him.
The ogre, bathed in sweat, gave off a rank odor. He walked slowly, his massive shoulders sagging. Ogres have very little stamina. Keeper was in better shape than most ogres, but even he must be as weary as Skylan.
“Haven’t you tortured me enough today?” said Skylan, annoyed. “What do you want?”
“To thank you,” said Keeper. He kept his voice low, his eyes on the soldiers.
“For what?” Skylan thought the ogre was jesting. “Not puking on your boots? Oh, I forgot. I did puke on your boots.”
Keeper smiled, then grew serious. “You were right. I have grown too comfortable here. I have brought dishonor on myself and my people.”
Skylan came to a sudden halt and stared at Keeper, an idea forming in his mind. He stared at the ogre so long, without saying a word, plans fomenting, that Keeper grew annoyed and the soldiers suspicious.
“What’s the matter? Have I suddenly grown one eye like a Cyclops?” Keeper demanded.
“No talking, you two,” a soldier yelled. “Keeper, the Legate wants you back at the villa. Don’t keep him waiting.”
“Go bugger yourself,” Keeper muttered, but he obeyed.
Turning his back on Skylan, he walked off, heading in the direction of the villa.
Skylan ran soft-footed over the grass after Keeper. The soldier gave a warning shout, but it was too late. Skylan jumped on the ogre’s broad back. Keeper roared in anger and, beneath Skylan’s weight, fell to the ground.
“Listen to me!” Skylan smashed the ogre’s forehead into the dirt and spoke into his ear. “Ogre warships are sailing to attack Sinaria.”
Keeper managed to twist his head. One eye peered up at Skylan.
“It’s true,” Skylan said, grinding his knee into Keeper’s back. “I overheard Zahakis and Acronis talking about it.”
Keeper got his hands planted and heaved himself up off the ground, sending Skylan flying. He rolled out of the way just as Keeper’s boot slammed down, barely missing his head, and scrambled to his feet. He and Keeper glared and circled each other, ignoring the soldier’s orders for them to stop.
“Are there more of your people in the city?” Skylan asked.
“Yes,” said Keeper.
“Can you get the word out?”
Keeper nodded. They had no time for more before the soldiers came.
“All right, break it up. Haven’t you savages had your fill of blood enough for one day?”
Keeper wiped dirt and blood from his face.
“Not nearly,” he said.