10. Seven

It was hard to judge by the sun, but we spent more time marching on the second day than the first. Maybe it only seemed that way because I had to walk. Senna had leashed me to the back of the cage hours ago and forced me to keep pace with it. When I didn't, he poked me with the rod and I fell, only to be dragged. It was much better for me to run than to be dragged. My feet ached. I was certain I'd have blisters at the end of the day.

The sea of grassland gave way to barren fields and abandoned farmhouses, flatlands morphing into slight valleys and the occasional rocky protrusion.

Watching the sun's path, I determined that we were headed north by northeast, which meant we were giving traditional trade routes a wide berth. The goal, then, must've been to take to the sea south of Brucia and sail for the Elven Isle. That made sense, considering the weather seemed to be turning cold. The elves made their annual raids between the Feast of the Maiden and the Feast of the Reaper before returning home before the first frost, which would soon be upon us.

As I walked behind my cage, it vaguely occurred to me that, once I left the shores of the Free Cities, I would lose my chance to escape. There would be nowhere to go but into the Barren Sea once I was aboard one of their longboats, and I was not that strong a swimmer. Not that I thought I could escape. Not even if they left my cage unlocked, and another slave passed me a knife to slit a few throats on my way out. I lacked the proper shoes and supplies for a journey to the nearest safe harbor, and Michail would likely hunt me down anyway.

After several hours, the cage stopped, and I was hustled back inside to be chained down without an explanation. If I thought my feet hurt before, they hurt even worse once I was off of them. The ache spread up my legs and a bone deep weariness settled over me, the likes of which I had never known.

I rested my head against the cool bars of my cage and dreamt of my escape, the borrowed quilt wrapped tightly around my shoulders. My mind conjured an unreality where I was still the bastard prince of Ostovan, trusted with the command of the palace guard.

By day, I stood guard on the high walls, or trained down in the yard. It felt so real that when I inhaled, the scent of sawdust was in my nose. The familiar weight of armor clung to my shoulders, and the leather wrapped grip of a sword was in my hand. Dappled sunlight came in through the curtained windows of my tower. As the sun set, I found drink and company to warm my bed before waking to do it all again.

Ostovan had no army to speak of, for there hadn't been a true war in the Free Cities in decades. No city had a standing professional army except for perhaps Trinta if one counted the Brotherhood of the Eight Divines as an army. There were volunteers who took up arms for the watch, and peasants fought for their lords when called upon, but bloody conflicts were few and far between. There was no one to fight except the elves who came every year, and most rulers understood it was easier to pay them tribute than to fight.

Commanding the palace guard was as close to an actual command as one could get in Ostovan, and I took the work seriously, drilling with my men daily. I could fight, shoot, and ride, and I had studied battle tactics as a matter of course and leisure. In theory, I knew how to command a company of men, and thought I had enough of a loyal retinue that no one would dare challenge my position. After all, I was a bastard with no claim. My eldest half-brother, Andrej, was the heir.

Until he died of a mysterious illness.

Then the line of succession was all anyone talked of. Lords from all over the city came to me, asking me to go to my father for his blessing, but I shrugged it all off. My father was young. He'd surely wed again, and they'd have another heir. I had no designs to sit on Ostovan's throne, and not nearly enough support to do so should I make the attempt. I liked my position in the guard. It had all the benefits I sought without any real risk.

Michail had other plans.

But I didn't dream of my half-brother and his treasonous acts. I dreamt instead of enjoying the perks of my position, of having wine and a steady supply of lovers whenever I chose. There was never any shortage of either. People from all walks of life sent bribes of coin and flesh, hoping to win favor with me, which I accepted. It was a dull but comfortable life of spoiled pleasures. Had I known I'd be separated from it so readily, I might've enjoyed it a bit more.

The cage rolled to a stop and my eyes fluttered open. The world had tilted on its side, but that was only because I'd curled up on the bottom of the cage. Sitting up, I found my limbs stiff and my back sore. My feet throbbed and burned. The cold had seeped into my bones, making them ache in a way that was completely unfamiliar to me. For a moment, I longed for the comfort of my featherbed and a hot bath, but I'd get neither from my elven captors. At least Senna didn't immediately appear with his shock rod.

I spent some time stretching my aching joints as much as I could, watching the slaves disperse into small groups of a dozen, each one entrusted to an experienced human slave that showed them how to carry out various duties. Some were set to erecting simple tents while others shadowed the animal caretakers. None of the new slaves were permitted near any of the officers or unarmed elves. None spoke to me, either, though a few shot me curious or judgmental glances.

I knew what they thought of me, that I was being held as a pet for someone important. Their disdain was written all over their faces. I wasn't one of them, would never be one of them. They hated me. I'd find no allies among them.

I pushed the quilt away in disgust. Part of me wanted to call out to them, but none of them would recognize me, even if I claimed to be their bastard prince. Most common folk had never seen me, and those that had would have been expected to avert their eyes.

The Ostovian nobility was, in some ways, no better than the elves I now served.

By the time Senna appeared, banging his rod on the doors of my cage, the daylight had dimmed and evening was in full force. He came with his two big elf brutes, and yanked on my chain to draw me out, the same as the day before. The only difference was, I was too tired and sore to fight him. I had resolved to save my energy for any escape opportunities rather than to waste it on him.

Just as before, he took me into a small tent and hitched me to the post, removing my clothing and washing me down with icy water before coating me in oil, inside and out. Instead of the pitifully thin clothes I'd been given the night before, I was put in a pair of simple cotton trousers and a worn, loose-fitting tunic. Thick cuffs were placed around my wrists, and they were leashed together.

He didn't escort me to Ruith's tent, but rather to a crowded area of camp far from the neat lines of tents. Torchlights flickered, sending plumes of uneven smoke up. It wasn't yet late enough to be dark, but at least the torches and the abundance of bodies kept the area warm.

The crowd of elves shifted around excitedly, some clapping backs, others laughing and talking loudly. Coin and drink changed hands frequently in every direction I looked. Fists shot into the air intermittently with cheers, though I didn't see why until we pushed to the front of the crowd.

They'd dug out a pit roughly ten by ten feet and stacked boulders and bales of hay around it to create a higher perimeter. Two naked elves were down in the pit, engaged in a fight while the spectators cheered them on. The larger elf wore his hair in three thick braids running down the center of his scalp. Another long, braided beard hung from his chin. He swung his fists like hammers. A lot of strength, but little finesse. The smaller elf evaded him easily, throwing in a few jabs here and there.

It was clear to me the smaller elf was hoping to wear out the larger one so he could swoop in for a more technical win. It would've been a good strategy if the big elf wasn't also aware that's what he was doing and promptly lost his patience for their game. With a mighty roar, the big elf charged the smaller one, and the fight went to the ground. The smaller of the two tried to wriggle gracefully out of a series of messy holds, but the big one was able to press the advantage of his size enough to get him pinned in a headlock after a few tries. Trapped, the smaller of the two threw some jabs that connected with his opponent, but there wasn't enough strength behind them for him to free himself. Each punch grew weaker and weaker until, eventually, the smaller of the two went limp.

A wild cheer went up from the elves, and I thought someone might come forward to drag the unconscious loser from the pit. Instead, his opponent pried open the unconscious elf's jaw and promptly pissed in it while the crowd cheered him on. I frowned at the barbaric behavior. It was one thing to gloat over a defeated warrior, but there was no honor in such a victory, and no need to treat his fellow soldier that way. That sort of behavior could only breed animosity and dissent in the ranks, and I had no idea why the elves would encourage it.

Of course, I was looking at the unit with a human eye, and they were far from human. Perhaps that was the way of elves, mocking the defeated with profane gestures and piss. The victor, however, was hauled out of the pit and immediately had a group of camp followers fawning over him. It wasn't two minutes before he got his cock in someone's mouth, his opponent's blood still painted on his bare knuckles.

Two more went into the pit, but not elves. Instead, they'd dragged out a few hapless boy slaves, fresh from Ostovan. Neither of them could've been more than fourteen, and I doubted either had seen any proper training in their lives. Their sun darkened skin and skinny limbs spoke to a life spent in poverty. They'd likely been volunteered for slavery by their own family, sold for a few coppers so that younger children could be fed. It wasn't uncommon. That was where the Free Cities got most of the slaves they offered the elves, from what they called the dregs of the city. Parents sold their children to the elves rather than see them starve to death. It was cruel, but this was crueler.

But just because they had no formal training to fight didn't make them any less vicious.

A platter bearing a bread, hard cheese, and fruit was paraded around the pit and shown to the fighters, clearly offered as the winner's prize. The boys watched it carried around with wide, hungry eyes and growling bellies. The bread and cheese were probably more food than they'd seen in weeks, and they were being made to fight each other for it.

A horn blew, and the fight began, the two boys launching their scrawny, naked bodies at each other. At first, it was just a bit of rough scrambling, but they quickly found their claws. Fingernails raked over exposed flesh, sending droplets of blood raining into the dirt. Fists smashed against noses, knocked out teeth, snapped bones. One sank his teeth into the meat of the other's throat and shook him like a wild dog until, at last, one was still and bleeding and the other victorious. There was still blood on the winner's teeth when he bit into the bread.

Two days at the mercy of elves and they'd already forgotten their humanity.

The crowd parted with the elves stepping back, a fist to their chest, as Ruith and the other three commanders came to see the spectacle. Several humans scrambled to put down a rug while more hauled over a stump that'd been hollowed out like a chair and placed it at the edge of the pit, directly across from me. Even more slaves brought cushions and placed them around the makeshift throne before stepping back and fading away, unacknowledged. Ruith seated himself in the stump chair as if it were a throne while the others reclined against the cushions.

Except for the one with the long, platinum hair. He stayed behind Ruith, scanning the crowd, a hand on his blade at all times. Perhaps I'd misjudged him to be a commander. He seemed more like a bodyguard.

The victorious elf from the first fight returned and hopped down into the pit without ever dressing or washing. Blood still speckled his bare chest and streaked over his knuckles. Despite having his cock freshly serviced, it still hung stiffly between his legs.

"Seems Jandor is in the mood for another fight," remarked the blond mage elf with a smirk. "Among other things."

"Nothing like a good fight to make you ready for a fuck, and a good fuck to make you ready for a fight," added the redhead as they were all handed carved horns overflowing with some milky drink.

"Let's see if we can satisfy him." Ruith gestured to Jandor, who was apparently the large elf in the ring. "You have your choice of opponents."

Jandor inclined his head in thanks and turned, scanning the crowd. The reaction was mixed. Some of them shrank back, sinking further into the throng of people to avoid catching his eye, while others tore off their shirts and demanded to be his next opponent. Jandor ignored them all, his attention eventually settling on me. A chill went through me as he lifted a finger and pointed straight at me.

I unconsciously slid back a step, bumping straight into Senna. My eyes darted to Ruith with a frown. Certainly, they weren't going to put me in there with him. It was one thing for slaves to fight slaves, but they wouldn't pit one against their own champion. What purpose would that serve?

The crowd of elves erupted in an excited cheer as Jandor indicated his challenge. Ruith simply looked away with an uncaring shrug and drank. The fucker. If I somehow won this, I was going to climb out of that pit and claw out his damned eyes.

Senna shoved me forward, pushing the unspelled end of his rod into my back. I couldn't tell if it was him or someone else who gripped my tunic and tore it off my body, but it was him that demanded my trousers and kicked me into the pit when I was naked. I fell on my hands and knees, spinning around to scowl at him. It was a mistake because they blew the starting horn while I had my back to Jandor.

He barreled into me like a runaway wagon as I turned, knocking the air out of me and slamming my back into the rough dirt. Rocks and roots dug into my back as I fought to find a hold on him, but my hands were slick from the stupid oil they'd rubbed me down with. I couldn't find purchase. Jandor wrenched to one side, and I fell. As I went down, I tried to twist so at least I wouldn't be on my stomach, but Jandor's giant foot smashed into my ass and sent me sprawling.

The crowd howled with laughter that only got louder when Jandor mounted me and wrapped an elbow around my throat from behind. He was going for the same move that'd given him his first victory, but I was a quicker thinker. I tucked my chin before he could get a good hold, preventing him from choking me out. The elf's foul breath washed over the back of my neck and he snarled, putting all of his weight on my back instead of what he should've done, which was getting control of my legs. I capitalized on his mistake, pulling my limbs in, getting on my elbows and knees. I bucked with all my effort, trying to throw him off.

The elves laughed and jeered. "Looks like the human dog's hungry for elf cock."

My face heated, because it did put me in a rather compromising position against Jandor, especially as oiled up as I was, but I couldn't afford to be embarrassed. That was a distraction, one that could cost me everything.

Jandor, however, wasn't as wise. He heard them calling for him to go for it, to put it in me and make me squeal, and the idiot actually tried for it. He lifted one hand to try to grab his cock to line it up, freeing my left arm. I threw an elbow at his face. It connected weakly, not enough to break his nose, but it was enough to sting and stun. He fumbled with his positioning, and I scrambled away, throwing a handful of dirt at his face as I made my escape.

This time, the laughter was at Jandor's expense. He snorted like a bull and pawed at the dirt that'd blinded him while I found my feet. I saw an opening, and I took it, tackling him to the ground. He tried to raise his hands to stop the flurry of blows I unleashed against his face, but he couldn't catch them all. Blood spurted and bone crunched as I rained down punch after punch after punch. Victory was at hand, so close I could taste it as sure as I could taste the sweat on my lips.

Until Jandor remembered that he, too, had legs. Somehow, he got his knees pulled up enough to launch me off him. I flew back, hitting the far end of the pit. My head bounced off a protruding rock, and I nearly blacked out, recovering just in time to see Jandor throw two punches. The first was a glancing blow to my chin. If he'd angled it a little better, it would've been an easy knockout, but he'd come in too fast, blinded by his own fury. The second shot landed just below my ribs, a perfect shot to the liver. I had time to draw half a breath before my body betrayed me and I crumpled. Pain rippled through me, replacing breath, thought, everything. I tried to get up, but couldn't move. Apparently, that was enough for Jandor to claim victory.

He threw up his hands and roared, the crowd cheering wildly as he galloped around the ring in celebration.

But that celebration was cut short when Ruith stood from his makeshift throne and made a vague gesture. Two wasters were tossed into the pit, landing in front of me. Jandor lowered his celebratory fists and snarled at me as I slowly found the will to stand. One hand gripping my side, I bent over to pick up one of the wasters. It was a crude practice sword made of sanded oak, the grip awkwardly large for my hand. Still, the weight was good, familiar in my fist. I was in far from prime condition for a sword fight, having already been soundly beaten once, but I knew the sword better than I knew how to grapple.

I expected Jandor to be the same. After all, he was a trained soldier. His overconfidence would be my ally.

He took up his waster, which fit his large hand considerably better than mine, and paced around the far side of the pit like a hungry bear sizing up a helpless meal.

I was far from helpless.

Jandor's first attack was a messy but cocksure swing. My upward riposte wasn't nearly as showy, but far more effective. His eyes widened with surprise as I batted his sword away and what would have been the false edge came dangerously close to his throat. I saw the shift in his understanding, the realization that I knew what I was doing with a sword. He backed away, repositioning with a more serious look. I pressed in, unwilling to give him time for a proper recovery. My next attack wasn't meant to connect, but rather to throw him off before he could get his footing corrected, and it worked like a charm. I landed a crushing blow to his upper arm, and he snarled, grabbing at the injury. The wasters wouldn't cut or maim like a real sword, but they could bruise and break bone, and I had shown myself capable.

Jandor's eyes shifted to the elves circling the pit, taking in their reaction. Was their approval more important to him than victory? I'd have more respect for him if that were the case, but I didn't think it was. He gritted his teeth and came for me again, swinging the wooden sword with enough force that, had the blow connected with my head as intended, it might've been deadly. Instead, I stepped inside his guard and, with an upward swing, I took his arm. Or I would have if there had been a sharpened edge. As it was, the wood snapped against his dominant arm just below the elbow with a loud crack. The arm bent at a strange angle, Jandor howling in pain. He dropped his sword and went to his knees in defeat, but I wasn't the sort to let my enemies live to fight another day. I swung the sword at his thick neck. Even without a proper blade, there might've been enough strength behind the blow to crush his windpipe.

I'd never know. Someone closed their fist around the sword before it could connect.

I hadn't even heard Commander Aryn jump down into the pit, nor had I heard him come up behind me, but he was there nonetheless, stopping me from killing Jandor. With surprising strength, he yanked the waster away from me and passed it to someone outside the pit before taking my arm and lifting it high in a declaration of victory.

Everyone in attendance—elves and slaves alike—cheered. Everyone except for Ruith. He simply smirked and took his leave.