She said nothing and stared back.
“We’ve got plenty of room,” the man went on, coming closer on unsteady legs. “Everyone else’s pissed off. Can’t think why.”
Reva met his gaze, saying nothing. Drunk as he was, some faint warning must have sounded in his head for he stopped a few feet short of her, eyes narrowing. “What you want here gir-!”
The knife came free of the sheath in a blur, she ducked forward then upwards in a fluid motion, the blade slicing through his neck, then twisted away as he fell, blood spraying through his fingers.
The second one she killed was too shocked to react as she leapt, wrapped her legs about his chest and stabbed deep into his shoulder, once, then twice. She leapt free, darted towards the third man, now fumbling for a cudgel in his belt. He managed a single swing which she ducked with ease, rolling on the ground then slashing back to sever his hamstring. He fell, cursing and screaming. Reva turned to the fourth man. His fevered gaze took in the scene around him as he fidgeted, a long-bladed knife in his hand. He gave Reva a final terror-stricken glance, dropped the knife and fled. He had almost reached the sheltering darkness beyond the firelight before her knife throw took him between the shoulder blades.
Reva went to the large man’s body, pushing it over to retrieve the ring from around his neck. There was also a good-quality hunting knife in his belt, Realm Guard issue from the regimental crest on the handle. She took the knife, pocketed the ring and walked to the man with the severed hamstring, now weeping desperate pleas through a cloud of snot and spittle.
“Don’t worry, Kella,” she said. “I promise I won’t fuck your corpse.”
Ellora made them a breakfast of eggs and mushrooms fried in butter. As good a cook as she is a dancer, Reva thought, tucking in. She waited until Ellora and Norin had gone to tend to the drays that pulled their wagon, then took the ring from her pocket and tossed it to Al Sorna. He looked at it for a long time. “The sun and the moon,” he said softly.
Reva frowned. “What?”
He held it up for her to see, an engraving on the inside of the band, two circles, one wreathed in flame. “They were Deniers.”
She shrugged and returned to her breakfast.
“The bodies,” Al Sorna said.
“Weighted and dumped in the river.”
“Very efficient of you.”
She looked up at the hardness in his tone, seeing something in his gaze that gave new fire to her anger. Disappointment. “I am not here because I choose to be, Darkblade,” she told him. “I am here for the sword of the Trueblade so that I might earn the love of the Father by bringing down your unholy Realm. I am not your friend, your sister or your pupil. And I do not care one whit for your approval.”
Janril Norin coughed, breaking the thick silence that reigned in the aftermath of her words. “Best be looking for the guard captain, my lord. If this is to be done today.”
“That won’t be necessary, Janril.” Al Sorna tossed the ring back to Reva. “Keep it, you earned it.”
CHAPTER TWO
Frentis
The shaven-headed man coughed blood onto the sand and died with a faint whimper. Frentis dropped his sword next to the body and waited, still and silent but for the harsh rasp of his breathing. This one had been harder than usual, four enemies instead of the usual two or three. Slaves scurried from the dark alcoves in the pit wall to clean up the mess, dragging the bodies away and retrieving his sword. They kept their distance from Frentis. Sometimes the killing rage the overseer instilled in him took a while to fade.
“Remarkable,” said a voice from above. There were three spectators today, the overseer joined by the master and a woman Frentis hadn’t seen before. “Hard to believe he’s actually improved, Vastir,” the master went on. “My compliments.”
“My only thought is to serve you, Council-man,” the overseer said with just the right amount of fawning servility. He was a diligent fellow and never overplayed his part.
“Well?” the master said to the woman at his side. “Does he meet with our Ally’s approval?”
“I don’t speak for the Ally,” the woman said. Her tone, Frentis noted, was free of anything that might be described as servility, or even respect. “Whether he meets with my approval, however.”
Bound as he was Frentis could not outwardly express surprise, or any other emotion not permitted him by the overseer, but he did twitch in astonishment as the woman leapt into the pit, landing from the ten-foot drop with practised ease. She was dressed in the formal robes of a Volarian highborn, dark hair was tied back from a face of feline beauty with eyes that gleamed bright with interest as she examined Frentis’s naked form from head to toe. “Prettier than I expected,” she murmured. She looked up at the overseer, raising her voice. “Why is his face unscarred?”
“He never gets any scars, Honoured Lady,” Vastir called back. “A few have come close over the years, but he was already highly skilled when he came to us.”
“Highly skilled were you, pretty one?” the woman asked Frentis, then grimaced in annoyance when he didn’t respond. “Let him speak,” she called to the overseer.
Vastir glanced over the edge of the pit at Frentis, and he felt the slight loosening of the will that bound him. “Well?” the woman demanded.
“I am a brother of the Sixth Order,” he said.
She raised an eyebrow at the lack of an honorific.
“My profound apologies, Honoured Lady,” Vastir gushed. “However many punishments we administer he refuses to use correct language, and we were cautioned that the only death he should face would be in the pits.”
The woman waved a hand in dismissal. “Swords!” she commanded.
There was a moment’s confusion above, a whispered discussion between master and overseer from which Frentis discerned the words, “just do it, Vastir!” Another brief delay then two short swords were tossed into the pit, landing in the sand between Frentis and the woman.
“Well then,” she said in a brisk tone, shrugging off her robes to stand as naked as he was. Her body was lithe, displaying the finely honed muscle of one who has spent many years in hard training and was, by any standard, quite beautiful. But what interested Frentis was not the curve of her thighs or the fullness of her breasts, but the pattern of whirling scars that covered her from neck to groin, a pattern he knew with intimate precision. They were an exact mirror image of his own, the matrix of damaged tissue One Eye had carved into him in the vaults beneath the western quarter before his brothers came to free him.
“Pretty aren’t they?” the woman asked, seeing how his eyes tracked over the scars. She came closer, reaching out to caress the whirling symbol on his chest. “Precious gifts, born in pain.” Her hand splayed flat on his chest and he felt warmth emanating from it. She sighed, eyes closed, fingers twitching on his skin. “Strong,” she whispered. “Can’t be too strong.”
She opened her eyes and stepped back, removing her hand, the warmth fading instantly. “Let’s see what your Order taught you,” she said, crouching to pick up the swords, tossing one to him. “Release him!” she ordered Vastir. “Completely.”
Frentis could sense the overseer’s hesitation. In the five or more years he had been caged here they had only ever fully released him once, with very unfortunate results.
“Honoured Lady,” Vastir began. “Forgive the reluctance of one who only seeks to serve . . .”
“Do as I say, you corpulent pile of dung!” The woman smiled for the first time, her gaze still locked on Frentis. It was a fierce smile, joyful with anticipation.
Then it was gone, the will that bound him lifted like the planks of the stocks he remembered so well from childhood. The sudden rush of freedom was exhilarating, but all too short.