Rayad thanked his Creator he never had to have a part in it. Men were not supposed to kill each other for sport. It wasn’t the way of Elôm. But the knowledge of Elôm had died to mere myths in the minds of many in Ilyon these days, with Arcacia leading the way. If that weren’t true, he wouldn’t be in this mess.
Setting his mind again on what he must do, he came upon the local market. Stalls and carts lined each side of a narrow street between the rough stone buildings and clogged traffic nearly as much as in the arena. He grumbled under his breath, good and tired of so many people. He couldn’t reach the forest again fast enough. Red and gold overhangs shadowed the path from the sinking sun, but it also trapped the hot, stifling air beneath. Not even an overburdened spice cart could cut the stench of sweat. How he hated cramped and dirty markets—and he’d seen enough of them in his days of trading and selling horses. Yet, once again, the unpleasant crowd provided necessary cover.
Near one stall at the end of the lane, his eyes caught on a shadowed figure, and he murmured a silent prayer of thanks. He slipped through the remaining people, sidestepping a pair of grubby children who raced by, and joined the other man in the shadows.
“Ah, Warin, you’re here.” Rayad clasped the man’s thick, bracer-protected forearm. Splitting up to disguise their trail had been wise after all. At least they both still drew breath.
“Thank the King you made it.” Warin kept his deep voice low. “I was beginning to worry.”
“I took it slow and made sure to cover my trail. The emperor’s men are everywhere.” Rayad glanced around. No sign of gold and black uniforms here…yet. “We’re probably ahead of any messengers from Falspar, but we can’t be too careful.”
Warin agreed.
Rayad returned his eyes to his friend as his heart sank. Would they really part here for the last time? This grimy, undesirable place in the middle of nowhere? They were like brothers—they’d grown up together, worked together. He’d never expected their lifelong friendship to end like this.
“Have you made up your mind on where you’ll go?”
“I figure I’ll head west.” Warin inclined his head in the direction the sun would soon set. “If there are others like us, I’ll find them.” He paused, and his eyes turned hopeful. “You still plan to head north?”
Rayad hated to disappoint him, but gave a firm nod. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen Kalli and Aldor.”
A smile hinted through Warin’s beard. “You’re sure you don’t want to join me?”
Tempting, he had to admit, but Rayad shook his head. “I think it’s time for a little peace. I’m getting too old for this.”
Warin chuckled. “You know I don’t believe that. You only have a few years on me, after all…but I don’t blame you. You ought to have some peace by now.”
The two of them clasped arms again.
“Take care,” Rayad said, squeezing his forearm. “Maybe I’ll get bored and come find you one day. May the King protect you.”
“You too. I’ll keep a lookout.”
They traded their final goodbyes and parted. Making his best attempt at optimism, Rayad used the opportunity of the market to purchase the last of his provisions and returned to the stable where he’d left his horses. He stowed his supplies and paid the stable boy before leading the animals outside. His eyes made a quick sweep for soldiers before he turned to mount his reliable white gelding.
“Time to get out of here, Aros.”
Once he was in the saddle, the horse promptly obeyed his every command. The one beside him, however, balked at first. Rayad tugged the lead rope and grumbled. “We’re not doing this now.”
The young ebony-coated stallion followed, though the subtle arch of its neck still spoke of stubbornness. Ornery creature. Was the beast even worth the trouble? He was getting too old for a good number of things, including dealing with fiery young horses. But the stallion was all that remained of the proud bloodline his father had started so long ago…the only one not stolen from him.
Forcing aside his nerves, Rayad maintained a casual pace toward the northern outskirts of Troas, one of the largest cities this far south. It lay just north enough to avoid nighttime attacks by the monstrous cave drakes inhabiting the Krell Mountains on Arcacia’s southern shores.
Beyond the outer buildings, he spotted the forest, but first he had to pass through the open meadow scattered with tents and wagons. Heavy, barred wagons mostly—gladiator wagons—all gathered for the games. Many stood empty, but a few contained men with faces and eyes either void or glaring their cold hatred. Rayad diverted his gaze and focused on the road, but he ground his teeth. What was happening to this world? Oh, for the days long past when the inhabitants of Ilyon had served and worshipped their true Lord—millenniums ago, before the ryriks had led the revolt against their Creator and changed how everything was created to be.
The road meandered its way toward the trees, urging Rayad to ride faster. He glanced over his shoulder, just to be sure no one followed, and tried to shrug off the clinging claws of paranoia. A raised voice drifted through the air, and he whipped his head around.
“…worthless creature…teach you to defy me…do as you’re told…”
Rayad snorted and shot a glance at the stallion beside him. Probably another troublesome beast of burden. He rode past a tent and found the source of the shouting—a stout man dressed in flamboyant red linen and an ill-fitting leather doublet. The man raised a horsewhip, spitting out a string of curses, and brought it hissing down—not upon some hapless animal, but on another man kneeling in front of him with one arm chained to a stake. Rayad’s gut wrenched. It was the same young gladiator he’d seen in the arena. He pulled Aros to a halt.
The man beat the gladiator without mercy. Rayad cringed at every stinging impact, but the young man made no sound and barely flinched. Infuriated, the man with the whip took him by the hair and yanked his head up. Blood dripped from the gladiator’s chin.
“How many times do I have to tell you? You could be a sensation. You please the crowd, do you understand?”
To punctuate these words, he backhanded the gladiator across the chin. In a defiant move, the young man tried to rise, but he received a solid fist to the ribs and sank back to his knees, where the man with the whip proceeded to beat him again.
Rayad squeezed Aros’s reins, and the leather dug into his palm. Common sense told him to move on, that he could do nothing, yet every bone in his body willed him to act.
“Excuse me,” he called out before the man could strike again.
The man with the whip spun around, his face flushed nearly purple. Rayad slid off his horse and marched up to him. Another massive hulk of a man stood nearby next to a wagon with the faded and peeling red words Jasper’s Gladiators painted along the side.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Rayad demanded of the man with the whip.
His flaccid face knotted in an ugly scowl. “None of your business. He’s my slave.”
Rayad planted his fists on his hips and glared down at the man who stood a few inches shorter. “Slave or not, no man should be treated in such a manner.”
Jasper let out a cruel bark of laughter. “He’s no man.”
He reached for the gladiator’s hair again and yanked it up on the side. Rayad’s breath snagged halfway up his throat. The young slave’s ear came to a noticeable point.
Sneering, Jasper shoved the gladiator’s head away as if he were the most disgusting thing in Ilyon. “He’s half ryrik.”
The mixed blood slave looked up, and his sea-blue eyes almost glowed behind the strands of hair that fell in his face. His gaze locked with Rayad’s. Defiance and danger flashed in the cold, diamond-hard light, but deeper writhed the shadows of a tortured soul.
“He gets just what he deserves; now go about your own business.”
The coarse voice snapped Rayad to attention. He broke eye contact with the gladiator as Jasper raised the whip again. Before it found its target, Rayad grabbed i
t.
“Enough!”
Scowl lines sinking deeper, Jasper tugged on the whip, but Rayad held fast. The man balled his fist and took a swing at his chin. Rayad caught him by the wrist and, in one fluid motion, landed him on his back. The man at the wagon pulled out his sword and stepped forward, but Rayad was quicker. In an instant, his own sword flashed out of the scabbard and rested at Jasper’s throat. The other man paused.
“This is between me and him.” Rayad’s tone and glare left no room for argument. The man remained where he stood, but watched closely, sword ready.
Rayad stepped away from Jasper. The smaller man scrambled to his feet, his red face bunched like a child ready to throw a fit. He reached for his sword, untrained fingers fumbling, but froze at Rayad’s next words.
“How much do you want for him?”
Jasper’s expression morphed from rage to confusion. “What?”
“How much do you want for the boy?”
Jasper eyed his slave, and the gladiator peered at the two of them, his bruised and bleeding face a cold mask, void of emotion.
With a harsh laugh, Jasper turned back to Rayad. “You’d pay for such an animal?”
Rayad narrowed his eyes and battled the impulse to go ahead and let the man try to fight him. Let him see how it felt to be on the receiving end of someone who held all the power.
“He may be half ryrik, but he’s also half human.” Thinking better of letting this turn violent, he slid his sword back into the scabbard and turned to his horses to dig in his saddlebags for his money pouch. He weighed the small leather bag in his hand. Not much to show for a lifetime of hard work. He faced Jasper again. “I’ll give you two-fifty for him.”
Jasper’s mud-colored eyes squinted greedily. “How about three hundred?”
“I only have two-hundred fifty.”
Jasper darted a glance behind Rayad. “Throw in the black horse and you can have him.”
“The horse is not for sale.”
“Then there’s no deal.”
Rayad’s fingers itched to reach for his sword again. Instead, he turned to his saddlebags once more. This time he pulled out a dagger of the finest craftsmanship. He hesitated, hating to part with it, but in the end, he’d rather keep the horse.
“I’ll give you this and the money.”
At the sight of the weapon, Jasper nearly drooled. “All right, it’s a deal.” He sneered at the slave. “He won’t amount to anything anyway.”
Jasper snatched up the dagger and the money pouch with a wicked grin begging to be wiped away with a fist. He reached into his pocket and tossed a key into the dirt at Rayad’s feet.
“I wouldn’t set him loose if I were you. He’s likely to run off, or even more likely, slit your throat and ride off with your goods.”
With these parting words, Jasper and his bodyguard strode away toward the city. Rayad faced the young gladiator whose piercing eyes trained on him like some wounded, mistrustful animal. He took a step closer, and the slave rose to his feet, confirming his impressive height. His hair, as black as one of the crows that scavenged nearby, framed his face in straight, uneven layers ending at his strong jaw. A hint of stubble traced his bloodstained chin. Though almost hidden behind a hard mask, his youthfulness peeked through, just as Rayad had seen in the arena.
The young man eyed him up and down, clearly taking in his strengths…and weaknesses.
Elôm, what have I gotten myself into this time?
Keeping his voice calm and non-threatening, Rayad asked, “What is your name?”
The young man didn’t even blink at the question. A long silence stretched between them. With a sigh, Rayad gave up and bent down for the key.
“Jace.” Though hinting at youth, his voice was deep and powerful.
Rayad straightened.
“My name is Jace.” The young man’s eyes glinted and measured his every reaction.
“I’m Rayad.”
He gave Jace a look-over. Though missing his armor now, blood stained Jace’s sleeveless tunic from his right shoulder down his side and oozed along his left arm. Rayad glanced at the key in his hand and back to Jace as he weighed his options. Best to start right out with the truth.
“I have no notion of whether or not I can trust you. But I do want to help you and see your wounds are properly tended. I’ll leave you chained until then, but when I’m done, I’ll release you. After that, it’s your choice. You can run or come with me. You’re no longer a slave.”
Jace’s hardened expression barely changed, but his eyes flickered with the many thoughts racing through his mind. If only Rayad could know what those were.
He turned and unbuckled his sword belt to hang it over Aros’s saddle. This destroyed his plans for a quick getaway, but what choice did he have? He couldn’t just let the boy run off, wounded and unprepared. It would defeat the purpose of freeing him. He glanced at the key again and tucked it away in his saddlebags. At least this way Jace wouldn’t try to kill him until after he’d dressed his wounds. He gathered up his medical supplies and waterskin and turned back to Jace.
“Why don’t you kneel down so I can take a look at your back and other wounds?”
Jace’s eyes flashed to Rayad’s face, pained in their intensity and distrust. No doubt this young man had known a lifetime, short as it might be, of hateful mistreatment. Rayad softened his normally rough tone. If he were going to help him, he would have to break through the first layer of his defensive wall at least.
“I have no intention of harming you.” He gave a dry chuckle. “Actually, I have no doubt you could outmatch me if you wanted.”
Jace’s tense face relaxed a little. He cast a wary glance around the camp and dropped first to one knee and then the other. Rayad knelt beside him and lifted the back of his threadbare tunic. He ground his teeth together. Angry, red welts covered Jace’s back. Numerous other scars left from old wounds added to the stomach-turning sight. Rayad drew in a deep breath and checked the wound on Jace’s shoulder. Despite the amount of blood, the long cut was superficial.
“I think this would be easier if you took your tunic off,” he said quietly.
Jace reached up with his free arm to pull his tunic over his head and let it hang on the chain. A grimace crossed his face—the first show of any pain. Their eyes caught, and a burst of anger flared in Jace’s, erasing the embarrassment. Rayad gave him a sympathetic look. “Feeling pain isn’t a weakness.”
Jace looked away, clenching and unclenching his jaw.
Neither spoke as Rayad carefully cleaned and bandaged the wounds. Though Jace tried to hide all hint of pain, his breathing became labored. When he finished, Rayad rose, and Jace slipped on his tunic as he pushed to his feet. Rayad returned the supplies to his saddlebags where he pulled out the key. He turned it in his fingers and glanced skyward. Give me wisdom to handle this. It could cost him his life. But wasn’t a whole garrison of soldiers bent on taking it anyway? If he had to go one way or the other, this would probably be quicker than anything they planned. He turned to Jace, and the young man lifted his wrist. With silent prayers still running through his mind, Rayad unlocked the chain. It fell to the ground with a clatter, and he tossed the key away.
“You’re free.”
Jace’s eyes darted around the area—first to the trees, then to the horses, and finally back to his rescuer for a moment. Rayad sensed the energy building inside him. Energy no doubt fueled by volatile ryrik blood. Any moment he could bolt…or attack. There’d be no stopping him either way. Rayad masked his apprehension with a conversational tone.
“Listen, you can go if you wish, but people would probably suspect you’re a runaway, and you could be enslaved again. If you come with me, I can offer you a good, warm meal and better prepare you to go on your way.”
Jace’s restless gaze fixed on him, but offered no answer. Rayad grabbed the horses’ leads and looked off toward the city. The sun had sunk behind it now. He wouldn’t get much farther today.
; “Why don’t we head into the forest and find somewhere out of the way to set up camp for the night?”
He headed for the trees. After a few yards, he glanced back to find Jace following. Perhaps he did have a chance at helping this young man.
A good distance in, Rayad veered off the road and found a suitable clearing a couple of hundred yards into the forest. Any snooping soldiers wouldn’t bother to look here. But it also left him at Jace’s mercy. The young man appeared only too aware of this fact.
“We’ll camp here,” Rayad murmured, and forced himself to turn to the horses, half-expecting to find himself strangled from behind. Tension squeezed his muscles, and an uncomfortable sensation of pressure built around his throat. A minute or two passed, and he relaxed. He looked over his shoulder. Jace just stood and stared at him as if seeing some foreign life form.
Rayad pulled the saddle from Aros’s back. “I won’t force you to do anything, but if you feel up to it, you can gather some firewood while I tend the horses. Don’t strain yourself—just enough to get the fire going. Then I’ll start supper.”
He went on with his work. A moment later, Jace walked off. Soon, Rayad had the horses hobbled and grazing, and he cleared a place for the fire. He rested back on his heels and peered into the quiet shadows of the forest. Not a sign of Jace. Maybe he was gone for good, or just waiting in the forest until night fell. And why not? It would be easy to steal the horses and get away in the dark. This is in Your hands, Lord, whatever happens. Still, he’d just as soon not have to walk all the way north and find a way to survive without supplies or money.
His stomach grumbled in response to such thoughts, and he reached for his pack to dig out his food supplies. When he looked up again, Jace walked just outside the camp. His muscular arms encircled a bundle of wood, and he approached with impressively quiet steps.