Chapter 3

Leather Scraps and Hope

I spend the next day and a half in the tower. Eating, stretching, or sleeping. I don't have much else I can do. The sun at least catches my room in a pleasant way. Heating the stone enough that it stays warm well past dark.

Something is happening in the BloodRock compound below me. It has been all day. A party? Some trade festival I hadn't known about maybe? Whatever it is. It's loud. The many voices below fuse on the trip to my window. Becoming the wordless chatter of a crowd.

When I was a kid the peace up here was so novel. A chance to rest, to have the domestic slaves read me stories. They don't do that anymore. I used to enjoy Just taking some time to not be tired. Enjoy the quiet. Not have to carry stones, or run mile after mile for a few days. Not have to fight animals and other children. Not get beaten if I lost a fight or yelled too much...or cried too much.

This time though. What I initially thought was frustration due to hunger has morphed into something much worse.

Maybe it's the sense that I am missing out on whatever festivities below? Maybe it's the feeling that I should be preparing harder If I have a match so soon. Maybe it's the lingering dread over what Muraab told me. " you are starting to cost more than you make." He may as well have told me BloodRock was considering my execution. It would be the same.

I don't know for sure. All three feelings twist around my insides. Battling back and forth in the arena of my emotions. When one briefly gains dominance over my thoughts. The others will seemingly team up against it. Demanding my attention, making sure I can't ever focus on one problem at a time.

While I'm unable to say for sure who was the victor or if there even was a victor. For the first time ever I'm anxious to get out of here.

Eventually, on the morning of my fight, Muraab comes and gets me. I'm not anywhere near recovered but I'll be able to fight. While not a hard and fast rule. Non-BloodRock pit slaves tend to be of a lower quality. The programs here kills a lot of us. Especially after we first arrive. There is a payoff though. Outside the walls of our own compound, we don’t lose often. Even with both me and Tota hurt we won't lose today. At least that's what I tell myself, again, and again.

I was surprised it was Muraab to be honest. Seems like the head of the guards should have better things to do than play escort for me. In fact he often handles me when someone of lesser rank would do. I guess he doesn't trust me. Still, I'm grateful to see him and follow the former pit slave without comment when he commands me to.

Each floor of the tower is much the same as the last. A circular landing with three rooms identical to the one I was in. Blank cells that double as operating rooms.

It turns out I am on the fifth floor. Second from the top. I don't envy whichever domestics or surgeons had to carry me up here. I've always wondered about that. Wouldn't you want your hospital to be as low as possible? All the one floor even.

My bewilderment at the choice to put me up here only deepens as we descend the tower. The place is all but deserted. I don't see one occupied room till we are only a floor from the bottom.

Of course, he's here. Kalon. The door to his room hangs open with Morean, Task, and Tota clustered around his cot. They have pulled in chairs from somewhere.

The blonde human looks better than the last time I saw him, but not by much. There is dried blood soaked into the straw mattress beneath him. The wound I dealt him open and weeping. It doesn't look infected at least.

I assume there has been extensive magical regrowth deeper inside him. As Kalon is conscious. Sitting up even. He's chatting tiredly to his far less wounded friends.

When they see me peering in from the landing the boys fall silent. Morean gets to his feet and puts himself protectively between me and the group. Just inside the doorway.

We lock gazes. It's not a friendly interaction. His eyes are swollen and dark-ringed. A memento of me smashing a bronze ball on a stick into his face. He almost looks cursed. Like one of those Thief-Rat people. But of course, he's not. He was born blessed. His dark skin is unmistakably lined with marble, and his horns are unmistakably made of stone. He looks like someone carved a person out of rock and then painted skin over it.

The blessed aren't like the cursed. There is no random chance in their creation, no in vitro divine providence that decides they deserve to be less than human.

No. For someone like Morean to be born, he has to have an ancestor from another world and within only the last few generations.

"What do you want?" he says. Face impassive but voice full of reproach. I realise truthfully I have no idea why I stopped to watch the group of pit slaves. It makes me feel stupid.

To hide my own embarrassment I force a scowl. Breaking the eye contact I look over at Tota "If you're late I'll break your other arm" I snap ... I'm not quite sure why I said that. I just know I don't want to look weak. Not with Morean and Kalon right there.

I guess it worked as Tota's eyes go wide and he stammers out that he won't be. Morean steps closer to me and uses some very colourful language to describe what I should do with myself instead. I'm about to reply with equal creativity or maybe try and bite his rocky face off when Muraab grabs my main and roughly hauls me away.

My blood was already growing hot. After being grabbed I desperately want to attack the guard. But I grit my teeth and ignore the urge. I'm not afraid of Muraab...I'm not! I'm just not as stupid as I look.

He hustles me out of the tower into the post-dawn light. Even early the sun has some bite to it. After so long inside it seems unreasonably bright.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

"South gate," says Muraab as I ward my eyes. "One hourglass." I nod. Should be plenty of time.

"You coming?" I ask with genuine curiosity. "Not this time," he says, shaking his head. "Atark." He means BloodRock. "Is sending me and his eldest to do a small-market run In Ashton's rest." He means buy children there.

I frown. Muraab will be gone for at least three weeks maybe more if the kids are slow. That's not good for me. While the former pit slave has put me in the tower more times than anyone he actually recognises my talent. It was his words on my behalf that got me moved to training with adults early. It's him that keeps me from the most demanding or demeaning tasks BloodRock has for his Pit Slaves.

Times when he has gone away before have been tricky for me. Often I'm thrown into an exhaustive number of matches, or forced to team up with boys expected to lose, or maybe worst of all dressed up like a savage and paraded in front of BloodRock guests with my jaw restrained. Letting them pet or hit me, letting them walk me around like a dog.

I hate it. I hate it so much I can barely breathe for days after a night like that. I hate it so much I destroy my own things, or send boys to the tower. I hate it so much I stay up late biting my cot's frame, and crying tears of rage.

"Expecting much of a haul?" I ask hoping he will say no. The fewer kids he is bringing. The faster Muraab will be back.

"No idea," he says casually before pausing. I think he notices something in my face because his expression grows conciliatory. " don't fret so much, just do not under any circumstances start or participate in challenges while I'm gone."

I let out a sigh. He’s right. We both know he's right. I'm walking close to the clifftop as it is. I can't afford to piss BloodRock off without the meagre protection Muraab offers.

"I won't, " I say. " I mean it. I won't." he puts a hand on my shoulder and I have the weirdest urge to hug the old man for a second. Can't explain that one. It's not like he's my dad. I ignore the rogue thought as he replies.

"Just try to relax a little." Yeah wow, Great advice. Thanks. Did I really just want to hug this man?

"Oh, and your friend Resh will be there today?" He's trying to distract me. I know this. It works anyway. "Resh is fighting?" I ask. Suddenly very invested. Muraab snorts "It's just a couple of matches while Saffron does business. Of Course, he isn't. But he will be attending. For us, Today is mostly so Atark can show off his special new youth pitter. It won't be much of a show if the boy has to fight The Rush."

I'm initially disappointed. Though it will still be nice to see my one and only friend in all of Far Mantys. Wait! New special youth pitter?

WAIT! Fight Resh?! At this point, Resh only fights in main events. They are putting this boy in the last fight of the day immediately?

"We have someone new and special enough to go right into a main event?" I ask flatly. Looking up into Muraab's scarred face. " Oh yeah," he says. Eyes bright with mischief. " a foreign champion, a genuine prospect." I'm getting annoyed now. A foreign champion? The only one of those I can think of is that monster Cathal in Azel…. and I guess if you count the Reveller. Which I don't. But neither of them are youth anyway. Or slaves for that matter.

“Who?” I ask. visibly dubious. Muraab just shrugs. A small smile crosses his face. Satisfied that he has effectively distracted me. "No time to chat with the likes of a lowly slave I'm afraid. An important man like me's got a caravan to lead. You understand." I can't help it, I smile a little. He's an annoying old bastard. But it's hard to hate him. Of course, I say the opposite.

"I hate you." But there isn't any venom in my tone and I'm grinning. "I hate me too," he says without much mirth as he turns to walk away. I guess he really doesn't have time to chat with a lowly slave.

I, on the other hand, have a little time. It will only take about a twentieth of an hourglass to strap my armour on. Maybe a little longer with my injuries. They do not give me a whole lot of it. Not that many pit slaves have it better. Even the houses that favour armoured pitters usually give them something more decorative than practical.

I'll pick a weapon from whatever the arena has and warm up on the way there.

I could wait for Tota. Most teams will run through some last-minute tactic, or just hang out together before a match. ....I did bite his arm kind of in half and almost killed his friend. So that's probably out. No, I'll go get my armour on and see if I can find anything out about this special new slave.

Like most of the trade house compounds within Far Mantys. BloodRock is a sort of town in miniature. A central fortress-like manse surrounded by dusty streets populated with various workshops, warehouses, regular houses, a bank, the tower, the youth and adult barracks, and of course the training yard. All penned in and isolated from the city by a tan stone wall four times the height of a man.

I head towards the youth barracks. Intentionally keeping my eyes on the ground. Not out of some deference or command. My eyes still haven’t adjusted to the bright morning sun, and looking higher is uncomfortable.

I don't have free run of the compound exactly. I can however move around it unescorted. Without the need of a collar or a chain to follow. That's not rare here but they won't even chain me up when we leave for House Saffron.

That might sound like an odd prospect. Giving someone like me any leeway is not the sort of thing you do if you want to be a slave owner for long. The simple answer is I don’t have leeway. I have a Forspoken stone.

Somewhere inside my body a piece of bone has been devoured and replaced by An enchanted onyx-looking pearl. Well at one point it was a pearl. Now though it is indistinguishable from the finger, or toe, or knee, or eye socket, or…I’ll probably never know which bone it is exactly. But it means BoodRock can find me at will wherever I go. Or even detonate the stone with a mere thought to cripple or kill me. It's sombering to think about. At least the Forspoken Stone allows me some degree of autonomy. I’m proud of the freedoms I’ve earned for myself even if their source horrifies me.

The inside of the barracks feels stuffy and hot when compared to the cool stone of the tower. Also, it stinks. Stinks the way only a wooden building with poor ventilation, in a hot climate, inhabited by close to seventy boys can. The scents of sweat, blood, and other bodily fluids are practically baked into the walls.

The barracks is the sort of place that always has someone in it. Boys working on their gear, boys sleeping off minor injuries, or just regular sleeping. Boys talking or playing made-up games, boys eating whatever food, or contraband they can get their hands on, or just relaxing in the little common room they gave us. You can't enter the barracks without encountering someone. No matter the time of day or night.

It's made up of three long halls connected by a hallway. Each filled with roughly twenty identical cots with identical chests at their feet. Well, they started out as identical. There isn't a chest or cot here that hasn't been carved into, painted on, or otherwise personalised by a past or present pit slave.

Entering hall three which has my own bed and stuff in it I glance around. Sometimes boys will wait to ambush you just inside a dorm. It's something I have seen Morean do before so I stay on guard. Of course, no half rock half human monster bursts from beside the doorway. It's a bit of a stupid concern. There is no way he could have gotten in here ahead of me.

In fact, all I see are a pair of human kids no older than ten helping each other change bandages. They are new and I don't know them. From the way their eyes widen and their voices drop below my hearing I guess they know me.

Oh, and an antlered cursed. I hadn't noticed him right away. His name is Gori.

He's sitting on that corner cot he fought so hard to get. Just about the only thing I've ever seen him fight hard for.