Prisoner (26 page)

Von Adolwulf did not seem to react as the first prisoner was presented to him.

With a cry born of fear and panic, the ragged man in grungy clothes charged Dieter.

He was killed swiftly and immediately. Had not even lasted a minute.

"At least we are not bloodthirsty," Beraht said, finally responding to the Kaiser's earlier comment. "Why, after sending your men to die most of the year, do you bring them home and inflict more deaths upon your people? Anyone watching this will be doomed to remain on earth. They will never be stars in the sky."

The Kaiser laughed tolerantly. "I would rather be in the earth than high in the sky. I will leave the stars to flighty Salharans." He paused as he watched von Adolwulf kill a fourth and fifth man. "He's rather boring, really. I was expecting more of my Scarlet Wolf."

Beraht's mouth moved before he could think to stop it. "Wolves kill cleanly. Torture is a human thing. As near as I can tell, von Adolwulf was never your Wolf, even though he was meant to be. You have no one but yourself to blame for it."

He swore as his head knocked hard against the ground. A fresh bruise would be forming on top of the knot that was still healing.

What was it with Krians that they thought the solution to everything was to throw him to the ground with as much force as possible? Beraht picked himself up, in pain, but pleased that he'd angered the Kaiser.

Down in the ring, von Adolwulf killed another man. Beraht wondered why he bothered. Wouldn't it have been easier just to die?

But that, he had to admit, wouldn't be von Adolwulf.

His movements—powerful, strong, confident, and precise—weren't as graceful as usual. When he'd killed the bandits, he'd moved almost liquidly, as though moving through the steps of some deadly dance. Beraht glanced sideways at the sword in the Kaiser's hand.

Swords are not lovers—they are named after them. So that when we die with sword in hand, we do not die alone.

Beraht looked again at von Adolwulf's sword. The Kaiser held it like a lover, but also like a man who knew it was his only because he'd stolen it. Beraht turned away as the arcen thrummed in his blood, knowing his eyes were definitely glowing by that point. Even the Kaiser would not be able to miss it this close.

He watched Dieter, who was up to… eleven? Twelve? Beraht had lost count. Was he tiring? It was hard to tell.

So that when we die with sword in hand, we do not die alone.

Stars refuse them all! Beraht forced his mind to focus on his escape. With red arcen, it should be easy enough. Vanishing from here, grabbing what supplies he could and then stealing a horse. Everyone was in the Coliseum—they would not know where he had gone until too late. All he had to do was focus, cast the spell and be gone.

But he didn't move. Metal and rainbows shimmered at the corner of his eye.

*~*~*

Dieter cut down the fifteenth man. Weak, all of them. Whether from hunger, fear, hate, or despair. They weren't even trying, just throwing themselves at him. Salharans, mostly, though a few were Krians who had never learned how to wield a sword properly. They were young and reckless and had likely been caught doing the stupid things young men always did. Some were of a more dangerous breed of criminal, but the reality of the Coliseum had rendered them unable to make the most of their skills. He wondered what they thought now that they were the ones in the ring.

He cut another one down, moving away from the crowd of bodies at his feet. The sword in his hand was repugnant. The balance was poor, and it was too short, too light. Mostly likely it had been made by an inadequate apprentice too concerned with the sword's appearance to pay better attention to what counted most in a sword. It was a mockery, a final sting.

Another man charged him, screaming Salharan prayers for mercy. Dieter stepped to the side and slashed the man's throat open. He moved and waited for the next one. He was not tired yet, but he was beginning to feel it. But that was the purpose of the petty criminals: to wear him down. The real fighters were being held back until he was no longer a challenge.

Dieter dodged a half-hearted lunge then cut the man down. He looked briefly toward the arena and was shocked to see Beraht was still there. Dieter had taken the lack of any kind of uproar to mean Beraht had slipped away without being noticed. Why was he still there?

The arcen burned in his system, fouler than alcohol. This was what the Salharans fought them for? A field to make a drug that made his whole body feel as though it suffered from some strange fever?  It made his head ache, and he had only a bit of it in his system. Tits of the Winter Princess, arcen was foul. No wonder the Salharans were such idiots.

Dieter killed another attacker, this time catching the edge of a sword on his arm. He swore and examined the cut. Bloody, but shallow. However, it also meant he was tiring. As if it mattered. He didn't even know why he was bothering to kill them all.

Though the way the other prisoners seemed to just run
at
his poor excuse for the sword, it would have been hard to get them to kill him. He remembered the jeers that had greeted his arrival the night before as the Krians locked in cages realized who had joined them in the dark.

The next man died quickly, unable to so much as scream.

Dieter knelt to clean his sword on the man's filthy tunic. When he stood again, his next opponent was walking toward him.

 This one was a Krian soldier in the bedraggled remains of a Verdant uniform. He couldn't be much more than twenty. "So what did you do?"

"Protested what my Lord General did to prisoners," the young soldier said. "He shipped me off for insubordination."

Dieter grunted in acknowledgement. A serious crime, especially during times of war. Most simply killed the soldier in question, but Ludwig would find this more effective a way to keep his other soldiers obedient. That was what the Coliseum was for, after all. "So what do you want?"

"I want to fight, Lord General. No one ever gave me the chance. You'll kill me, but at least my mother will see me go down fighting."

Dieter hefted his pathetic sword. "You would have done better under my command than his."

"I was scared, Lord General, of the Scarlet Wolf." The man smiled weakly. "I learned too late maybe that was a reason to press forward." He shrugged. "Perhaps in Spring I will be a stronger leaf on a new tree."

For reply, Dieter lifted his sword and motioned for the man to attack.

The fight did not last long, but it lasted long enough.

Dieter cleaned his sword on the same shirt he'd used before and cast a glance toward the Kaiser.

Benno watched him, he knew. The way he sat said he was displeased by something.

Beraht was still by his side. What was wrong with the damnable man that he remained? Was he too stupid to take freedom even when it was shoved down his throat?

Dieter touched his lip, which still bled. Every time it started to close up, he tore it open anew.

The next man came out at a dead run, sword at the ready. Dieter blocked his first swing, steel crashing against steel. The sound was jarring and loud—even when he'd fought the soldier, the fight had not been in earnest.

Here was a man, finally, who wanted to kill him. Not that he'd succeed, but at least now he could see an end.

Dieter shoved him back, reached out to kick the man's knee and lunged forward as he fell.

Well that had been a disappointment.

He wiped sweat from his brow, grateful that it was at least cold. This would have been pure agony in the heat. How many had he killed so far? He'd lost count.

The next man was worth considering. Massive, easily Dieter's equal in size. He had dark skin, bronzed by the sun and strange wounds in his ears, as if something had been torn from them—gold hoops or jewels, Dieter guessed. A man from the coast. Dieter wondered who he'd angered or killed to be forced all the way up the river to the Coliseum.

He swung hard, jarring Dieter's arms. The skill of a man of the sea and a sword that was just enough better than Dieter's own to be problematic. Dieter slid his sword away, shoving forward hard, but the man recovered quickly, coming in with an upward swing.

The fight began in earnest. Though Dieter was matched in skill, he could not compete in weaponry. His sword was too short, too poor, to give him the leverage he needed to fight a man of his own skill.

Still he pressed on, just barely keeping even. He was already tired and was exhausting quickly. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Just the fight. He would go down fighting—proudly.

Another hard downward blow jolted his tired arms, and Dieter faltered. He grit his teeth and then screamed as he drove the man back, but he was getting slower and the other man was fresh. It would have been easy to just give up and let go—if he did it right, he would even die quickly, almost painlessly. Except this wasn't what he wanted. All his life he'd been waiting to die. But not like this.

He wished—

Steel crashed, drowned out by voices suddenly screaming themselves hoarse as they began, finally, to cheer enthusiastically for whomever they had chosen to favor. The screams were indistinct, but Dieter thought he would have heard his name if someone called it.

No one did.

He faltered, slipping to one knee in the dirt, and unable to raise his head. Dieter barely lifted his sword up in time to block the blow coming down hard—

The sound of sword against sword was different. The ring of steel was familiar. True.

He realized the sword in his grasp fit. It was not what it had been. The man above him had stopped moving. Dieter looked up.

His sword.

Dieter looked at the man above him, who was just as bewildered, then surged up, driving the other man back, lunging forward, sword arcing. His opponent fell.

He spun around and looked to where Beraht was on the ledge, throwing himself down into the arena. "Tits of the Winter Princess!" his voice boomed across the arena, startling more than a few into a silence that spread until it suddenly erupted again into chaos.

*~*~*

Beraht ran for dear life, dropping the manacles that he had broken with magic to the ground as he did so.

Vanishing had not worked. His body didn't like the red arcen; already his head was throbbing, and he couldn't use the harder spells correctly. He had to get away until his body settled enough for him to try again.

Why had he helped the bastard? Stupid. If he had just left, he wouldn't have been in this mess.

He ran toward von Adolwulf, barely managing a weak spell to protect him from the worst damage of the arrows he kept expecting to feel in his back.

He realized von Adolwulf was running toward him as well and heard his shout. Typical. Beraht did the bastard a favor and got called a fool. Stars refuse them all.

When he and von Adolwulf met near the middle, Beraht wasn't surprised to find himself being throttled. "What are you doing, Beraht? Are you that stupid?" Von Adolwulf's head turned at the sound of the gates being lifted as the prisoners released en masse.

Beraht swore. "Shut up. I'm already sorry I did it; don't make me kill you myself." The world tilted and spun, and he fell forward, caught roughly by von Adolwulf. "Arcen," he gasped, feeling his heart beating too fast in his chest.

"We have to get out of here," von Adolwulf said.

"You don't say?" Beraht snapped. Taking a deep breath, ignoring the protests of his body, holding reluctantly to von Adolwulf's tunic to avoid toppling, he whispered the words that would take them away.

Then they vanished.

It took several minutes for the crowd to realize that the Scarlet Wolf and his Salharan prisoner were gone. When it was confirmed, the entirety of the Coliseum heard the Kaiser's scream of rage. Those closest saw the way he held his hand. It looked as though it had been burned.

*~*~*

Beraht swore as he crashed yet again to the floor. Two weeks with no arcen, and he was acting like a kid with his first sip of green. Pathetic. He stood up, limbs shaking with the effects of red arcen.

"Why are we in my room?" von Adolwulf asked.

"You're welcome," Beraht muttered. "It's the room I'm most familiar with. Easier to transfer to."

Von Adolwulf stared at him. "Don't ever do that again. By the Autumn Prince, how do you make it a lifetime using that stuff?"

"The same way you build a life with that sword—no choice. Do you know how to say thank you?"

"I did not ask you to save me, Beraht."

Beraht opened his mouth, but stopped as a realization struck him. He burst out laughing. "You're an outcast now! Just like me!" He backed away. "Don't hit me. We have to get out of here. Unless you're really in that much of a hurry to die."

Von Adolwulf grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt. "Do not get too confident, Beraht."

"Whatever. What do we need?"

"Winter gear. It is going to be far colder than either you or that sly cat realizes. This weather is merely a calm."

Beraht grinned, relishing the thrum of the arcen as his body adjusted to it. "That's what arcen is for."