Battleslave Page 2

  With a groan, Talitha dodged. The roar of the crowd offered her some help—the noise helped cover her footsteps.

  She ducked behind the nearest pillar. The brusii smashed straight into it and the base cracked. Talitha scrambled out of the way as the stone toppled, crashing down in a rain of bricks the size of bread loaves. Iron stakes that had held the pillar together went flying. One of them slashed her shoulder.

  At the scent of blood, the brusii roared.

  It was nearly dark and this was the last performance of the day. People were tired, but when Talitha dodged the brusii’s swinging claws once, twice, then thrice, shouts of excitement began to spread.

  Talitha’s entire body ached. She was exhausted, but so was the starved brusii. A creature like this should be hunting entire duneworms for a single meal. A few humans was scraps by comparison.

  It charged again like a bolt of fur. She couldn’t out run it.

  The beast swung and Talitha dropped. Its claws swiped mere inches from her arm. Hot breath blasted her neck and the creature squalled in frustration.

  Talitha dove for the ground, somersaulting and flipping onto the balls of her feet in a crouch. It was a simple exercise, one that she had practiced over and over as a child—learning to fall. She couldn’t think of much else she could do.

  The brusii squalled. Talitha rolled again. Roaring, the animal pawed blindly and again Talitha flipped into a smooth somersault, coming to stop outside the animal’s reach.

  The brusii sprang and Talitha dove straight for it, rolling under the animal. The beast skidded and slammed into the far wall of the arena, roaring in fury. Then it spun around faster than she could blink. It was done with games—it was starving, it wanted food.

  Talitha scrambled to get her legs under her, but her foot slipped on metal. One of the masonry stakes from the shattered pillar crunched in the sand under her foot.

  Snatching it up, Talitha didn’t think as the massive brusii charged. She rolled again, this time to the side. When she came up, she grabbed a fistful of fur and skin on the animal’s flank. The fur came loose, but the sagging skin was enough support for Talitha to drag herself off the ground.

  She clung to the creature’s side like a tick. It roared and snapped its body in a tight circle, teeth inches form Talitha’s face.

  Clenching the stake, Talitha stabbed the animal’s ribcage. The stake punched between its ribs and the creature let off a howl to shake the bones of the earth.

  It spun, bucking Talitha off. She went flying and hit the wall of the arena. Talitha found herself face down in the sand again. In front of her, the bloody ruin of the brusii’s last meal showed her gory future if this didn’t work.

  Dazed, she shook her head. Everything hurt. Her head ached and she had more cuts, bruises, and sprains than she ever remembered having in her life.

  Across the arena, the brusii snapped at its side, where the stake had been driven through. It warbled and cried.

  The crowd let off a murmur—some cheered it on, some stared aghast.

  The brusii caught the stake in its teeth and ripped it out with a snarl. The creature licked the wound before whirling on Talitha.

  It took a step and faltered. Groaning, its back legs buckled.

  Talitha shoved herself to her feet, head spinning. The brusii staggered after her even as she staggered away.

  It was a contest of willpower. Whose determination would outlast the animal’s death?

  Talitha reached the remains of the shattered pillar and picked up a second stake. This one had been bent by the impact, but one end was still narrow enough to serve her purposes.

  She leaned against the nearest intact pillar and faced down her death. The brusii growled, dragging itself with its hind legs limp behind.

  Less than ten paces away, the brusii collapsed. It groaned, whimpering weakly.

  Talitha approached it, the scarred eye sockets gaping up at her. This had been a powerful animal once—an apex predator—and now?

  Talitha stabbed the second stake through an empty socket and the creature stopped moving. Crumpling to her knees, she hung her head, panting.

  Above, the crowd cheered and shouts rose from beyond one of the grates.

  Footsteps came rushing. Talitha hung her head, hands braced against her knees. She didn’t know how she had done it. How had she survived?

  “It’s dead!” someone shouted. “She killed our bloody brusii!”

  A familiar voice swore. Talitha looked up to find a dark face scowling at the corpse of the animal and her beside it. Juba tossed his arms in the air.

  The half-blind guard stood with her hands on her hips as the crowd broke into cheers. “Finish her off?”

  The dark man squinted up at the crowd a moment. “Prothero overpayed for her and now she’s killed the brusii…” He shook his head. “Take her to the kitchen. If she survives the night, we’ll see if we can get that money back. But keep her separate from the others.”

  The half-blind guard nodded. “As you wish, Master Juba.”

  Talitha didn’t fight as she was grabbed by the arms and dragged out of the arena. This time, there was no hazing or taunting or perhaps she was too dazed to realize it.

  She was vaguely conscious of being dragged up an uneven flight of stairs. There was the flash of abrupt candlelight and she was shoved down on a blanket at the corner of a musty room.

  A fetter locked around her ankle and Talitha collapsed. All her strength, all that willpower that had kept her fighting for just a few moments, slipped away.

  Her eyes slammed closed and she distantly registered the voice of the guard before the world went black.

  Chapter Three

  It took Talitha a moment to remember where she was. A hard floor and blanket spread under her. Was she in Kilgal? Where was everyone?

  “Ashek…” She reached out just as she snapped back to her senses. The memory of the past two days returned in a wash along with an awareness of the sharp, steady throb pulsing through her skull.

  A persistent ache spread through her bones, muscles, and every fiber of her body. Everything hurt and she groaned, falling back to the floor.

  “Was Ashek your lover?”

  Talitha jumped. Her eyes flicked to the hunched figure in the corner. It took a moment for her to register the shape of the dark man, Juba, crouched over a steaming bowl. Beside him knelt the half-blind guard, the woman whose name Talitha still didn’t know.

  “You’re addressing me now?” Talitha took a deep breath—or tried. The effort sent a sharp pain through her entire chest and she thought better of it. “You were content to speak of me like a slab of meat before.”

  “You were a slab of meat. We were feeding you to the brusii.”

  “But not now?”

  The dark man carried on stirring the pot in front of him, still not looking in her direction. “There are fiscal concerns. And the gods seem to have favored you. I’d rather not fight their designs.”

  The half-blind guard grinned at Talitha. “That means there’s sport to be had yet, pretty girl. I’m Mila, by the way.”

  The other woman’s eyes stroked the length of her body. Talitha suppressed every outward sign of discomfort.

  “You will drink this,” Juba said. “I’ll not be pouring more money into you, so don’t even think we’ll be sending for a magian like you have in Ilios.”

  “You’ve been to Ilios?” Despite everything, Talitha’s heart lifted at the mention of her home. A moment later, she remembered who sat on the throne and bitterness came washing back. At least she could feel something now.

  “Once or twice.” Juba took hold of the pot with a pair of tongs and poured a dark green mixture into a clay bowl. It steamed sour and pungent, with a stench like rotting sirrush milk. “A bunch of heathens muttering prayers to a goddess of butchery. Warriors should serve Enlil, I say! Who better than the god of victory to keep you alive?”

  The disdain in his tone was enough to send her spirits plummeting all ov
er again.

  It was true. Ilios had worshipped Anakti for as long as history could remember.

  They were a warlike and violent people to the rest of the world. An old proverb came to mind. Something about those who spill blood will be cleansed in a bath of their own.

  She shuddered to think how much blood had been spilled in Naram’s rise to power.

  From here, Talitha had a view of the kitchens. The cooks and potboys were beginning to scrub the cauldrons and chopping blocks with sand, readying them for the next day’s use.

  The battleslaves on the other side of the grates had grouped off into their personal circles. They spoke in low voices and shared pipes of sativa. The green, earthy stench wafted faintly by every time it caught the breeze.

  Juba set down the bowl of green and steam billowed off it in grey plumes.

  “I heard there’s more Ilians headed this way,” grunted a man with a broad girth and squished face. Everything about him was meaty, from his hands to his heavy jowls, to his surprisingly muscled arms. The front of his tunic was stained with blood and Talitha could not imagine a more suitable shape for a butcher. “Rumors been spreading since last night.”

  Talitha remained as still as she possibly could for fear of giving something away. Ilians? Gilsazi and Kasrei?

  She thought of Shaza, captive of that northern woman. Her fists clenched. Whatever was done to him, Talitha would see done to her as was the way of the Sandsea. The common laws demanded blood for—

  That thought came with a dirty feeling. That law was written to honor Anakti. A sensation of being sullied festered in Talitha’s chest. How much had the war goddess controlled her even as she claimed to reject Her?

  “Not if the Headmen have anything to say about it,” scoffed the blind guard. “Not unless they’ve brought a few hundred warriors with them.”

  “Worse come to worst, we’ll turn the battleslaves on them,” Juba muttered. “Offer freedom in exchange for three Ilian heads. Seems like a fair bargain.” Juba glanced to Talitha, but she lowered her eyes.

  Weakness was a sin to Anakti, but the Lonely God didn’t care.

  “Prothero wants to call a meeting all the same, I hear.” The butcher grunted. “Old wolves don’t get old by ignoring jackals in their midst. How fierce can they truly be?” The butcher spat into the sand. “No one could do what the Ilians say they can. Look—we’ve got one chained in our kitchen like a bat fox to eat scraps.”

  This time, Juba and the blind guard looked to Talitha. Neither one of them agreed.

  “Here.” Juba shoved the bowl into her hands. “Drink all of that or Mila and I will pour it down your gullet for you.”

  Talitha blinked at the steaming green broth. She had eaten less appealing things in the desert and on the road. Yet none had smelled quite so bad.

  Her stomach clenched. When was the last time she had eaten? Three days ago?

  Talitha lifted the bowl to her lips. It splashed into her mouth tasting exactly as it smelled, but she didn’t doubt they would force her to drink it if she didn’t willingly. And what was the point of poisoning her when they could have killed her in the arena? Talitha gagged it down.

  She half expected someone to shove the bowl and pour it in her face, but it seemed they were not that cruel.

  “We’ll find out what they want soon enough,” Juba muttered.

  “They’ve never bothered with the borderlands before,” Mila said. “Why now?”

  Despite Talitha being a recent deserter—according to their knowledge—no one asked her. She was invisible and irrelevant. She might as well have been a tethered bat fox as the butcher said.

  “Word is they have a new ensaak,” the butcher said. “A usurper—the second heir’s husband who bowed the knee to Anakti and cleansed the ruling bloodline. Cut his own child out of its mother’s womb to prove his loyalty before the high priest.”

  Talitha went still. She didn’t move. She didn’t dare move. Had Esreth been alive when that happened? Was that the look of horror on her face, that look of…?

  “Took the head of the old ensaak, too. The ensaadi fled, they’re saying. Disappeared the same night.”

  Talitha closed her eyes. Naram had attacked the same night she left? Was that the truth or was it a garbled rumor sprung from the truth?

  Juba shot a glare in her direction and she gulped down the remainder of the green broth. It tasted like vomit in her mouth and scratched across her teeth, peppered with bits of sand at the bottom. She drank all of it.

  Coughing, she shoved away the empty bowl.

  “You can be obedient,” Juba grumbled approvingly. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

  Talitha didn’t answer. Juba took the bowl and tossed it to one of the cook’s servants with a shout for them to clean it.

  “Have Ildu tend this one,” he said to the nearest cook’s servant. “I expect her fed three times a day. She’s too weak to be on less. It doesn’t have to be extravagant, just make sure it gets done.”

  The cook’s boy nodded hastily.

  “Send word to me if she causes trouble.” Juba rose, his knees creaking.

  Mila leapt to her feet and reached out an arm to help him.

  He took it, groaning. “I’m getting old.”

  “Yes,” Mila nodded.

  “You didn’t have to agree,” he grumbled back.

  Mila shrugged. “You had me whipped the last time I lied to you.”

  “Fair point,” Juba chuckled. “Well, then. Let’s see to the bed checks.”

  Talitha was left behind with the cook’s boys. They ignored her, scurrying about their business like little mice.

  After they left, Talitha leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, alone in the dark and quiet. She stretched her chained ankle out in front of her, adjusting the lock as best she could. That green substance began to burn in the back of her throat.

  The light from the candles and torches didn’t reach this far. The mutters of the other battleslaves seemed distant and only half real. From her corner, she could see the stars past the edge of the roof, overarching the practice yards.

  The night stretched on and on, silent and dark. Talitha had never felt the darkness as a living thing, not since being a child. But tonight it was.

  The dark reached closer, heavy and oppressive. It could swallow her whole and no one would ever know. No one would care.

  Her family was dead and her city had turned on her.

  If she failed people who had never cared she existed, had she really failed at all?

  Talitha’s eyes stung and tears dripped down her hot cheeks. Her head ached and the whole of her body throbbed.

  She bowed her head. Why was she still alive?

  Surely, she was being judged. She’d passively worshipped other gods and had allowed—even encouraged—others to do the same. If this was judgment from the Lonely God, why couldn’t He just let her die?

  Her body was as close to broken as it could be while alive. Agony had taken her over, inside and out. Everything hurt and she should have been dead three times over by now, and yet…

  Bowed over her knee, Talitha shook. She was so tired and yet couldn’t sleep. She had never felt this stretched, this broken.

  “Take it,” she choked to the darkness. “Take it, take it, take it. I don’t want it, just…take it, please. No more icons, no more idols. No more bowing to shrines or having them in my home…” Not that she had a home anymore. “I’ll do anything. Just take it.” She crumpled over her knee, sinking to the floor half sideways. “I’m begging…please.”

  She didn’t think she’d begged before in her life, but she did now. She wasn’t even sure what she was begging for.

  Come daybreak, the cook’s boys fed and watered her. They gave her a pot to piss and shit in and there was no point waiting for privacy, so Talitha pissed and shit in front of them. Not that they were looking anyway. Most of them seemed afraid to make eye contact.

  That evening, Juba came by to cook his gr
een brew and order her to drink it. The concoction less tolerable by the second day, but she wasn’t sure if that was because he changed it or she was less hungry.

  By day, she listened to the gossip and tried to give nothing away. The Ilians were the talk of the town—some boys had heard that the city had been taken by a hundred warriors, others claimed it had been taken by Naram’s charisma and command. All said the new ensaak had sent emissaries to Lakesh, some said it was to report his success in what must have been a carefully orchestrated plan. Others said it had been to demand allegiance from his homeland.

  All agreed Naram was coming. Some said he had only a handful of men, others said he was bringing all the hosts of Ilios.

  Those who took the latter opinion said so with a strange level of ambivalence. It was as if death were an inevitability to be neither feared nor anticipated, but they’d still get satisfaction in being right.

  Through the night, Talitha wept in darkness. She begged for death and other times she begged for revenge. She ached to feel Naram’s bones break under her fists, to crush him like an insect.

  For three days and four nights, Talitha stayed shackled in the kitchens. Juba came nightly to make her drink his potions. Her fettered ankle grew dark with bruises, but the rest of her slowly dragged itself back together.

  Whatever was in that concoction seemed to be working.

  The morning of the fourth day, as soon as dawn came into view over the crest of the horizon, Juba was in her face.

  He unlocked her fetter and slapped her calf. “On your feet.”

  Talitha had learned by now not to ask questions. There would be a slap or a punch in it for her if she did.

  “Piss and shit and get to the practice yards for first exercises.”

  Talitha blinked at him.

  “Are you deaf?” he snarled. “Get moving!” He grabbed her arm and herded her through the kitchen’s barred door, locking it after him. The barracks had still not been unlocked. “The privies are that way. We’ll be starting the maneuvers with the others in a quarter hour. You will be in the ranks when I do roll call or I’ll strap you naked to the whipping post and let the others do what they will.”