2
“Another close shave today, huh?”
“Hey, I’d love some easier wins. But these old bones have seen more than thirty years, and with just one arm, these clumsy little victories are the best I can manage.”
The one-armed man retreated from the arena, which was still echoing with cheers, through a passageway reserved for the sword slaves. He was met by one of the guards—jailers, really—who were stationed around the colosseum. They were in charge of overseeing the slaves who provided the entertainment, and the fighters sometimes affectionately referred to them as slavers.
Many of the guards treated the slaves with contempt, but this one, Orlan, was unusual in that he was almost friendly with the fighters. What with his genial attitude, it was seriously questionable whether he was fit for guard duty, but he was evidently good enough at it that he’d remained at his post for the last several years, and he and the one-armed man had something of an acquaintance going. In fact, they were almost less like guard and sword slave than they were like friends.
“Here ya go,” the one-armed man said, tossing his blood-soaked weapon to Orlan. The sword slaves were not allowed to carry weapons except in the arena proper, and everywhere outside the fighting grounds, they were required to wear handcuffs. Even if such restraints were purely decorative on a one-armed person.
“Okay, cuffs are on,” Orlan said. Then he added, “You know, I’m glad you survived today. Maybe it’s not my place to mention, but there were some ugly rumors about that guy you were fighting. He grabbed a couple of guards by the arm, and they both died. Everyone claimed it was an accident, but…”
“But a Poison Hand user having an ‘accident’ is pretty much like saying he cut off their heads with his own weapon, isn’t it?”
“You said it. But we don’t get many of his kind through here. He was too big a draw to ask any questions. Gah, guards’ lives are as cheap as sword slaves’ here. Don’t tell anyone I said any of that, hey?” Orlan smiled thinly; he really wasn’t cut out for guard work. Or maybe it wasn’t guard work that didn’t suit him—maybe it was Ginonhive. Maybe the whole Volakian Empire.
The empire prized tangible virtues: unshakable conviction and the willingness to put one’s life on the line in a fight. Bleeding hearts and bountiful compassion earned no respect here. It could be hard to live with people who possessed such a rigid view of the world. But that was the Holy Volakian Empire.
“Well, still gotta be better than being a sword slave like me!”
“That’s not funny… Oh, hey, I’m not trying to say the only reason I’m glad you won is because the other guy was a jerk. It’s also because you’re pretty decent yourself.”
“Hey, watch it. You get too mushy, you’re gonna end up going down my route!”
“What do you mean, ‘route’?”
“Ah, never mind. Let’s just get out of here.” The one-armed man smacked Orlan, still confused by the unfamiliar vocabulary, clapping a hand on his shoulder as he tried to get them moving. For one thing, he wasn’t that interested in standing around shooting the breeze, but for another, this passageway led to the arena. Which meant that eventually, the fighters for the next match would be coming through it…
“Ohhh my. I was just wondering who could be flitting about here—if it isn’t my sweet little Al.”
“Ugh…”
This was exactly what he’d been hoping to avoid—a run-in with the next competitor. Al felt his mouth twist into a scowl.
“Oh my, oh my, oh my,” the new fighter said when she saw it, her voice tinkling like a bell. She came up to him looking like she was having a grand old time, her long, tall body swaying as she walked. “‘Ugh,’ he says! How positively mean! And here I thought we were friends…”
“Gimme a break. I’d have no end of trouble on my hands if I went around claiming I was friends with you. The best thing you could call us is acquaintances who occasionally stand and chat.”
“Hee-hee-hee! You do say the funniest things, my sweet.” The woman with the rather beautiful smile and laugh was tall, with close-cropped dark hair. Indeed, she was uncommonly tall for this world at over six feet. She was blessed with a perfect figure, curves right where a woman would want them, and she displayed them proudly with an outfit that showed plenty of skin. Combined with her angular face, it all made her look like a sculpture escaped from an art museum.
But there was something about her that was far more memorable than even her striking appearance: her arms. So far from being as long as her tall body would suggest, neither of them extended below the elbow.
Thus, she faced an even greater disadvantage than Al with his one arm, yet she was the flower that had bloomed against this adversity. Spectators didn’t shout and jeer at her from the front row; instead, she enraptured all of them. She herself was the main event here on the sword-slave island of Ginonhive.
“I’m grateful to ya, Hornet, I really am, but let’s think about our respective positions here. If a little ant like me stood next to you, I’d get blown away.”
“Oh, please don’t say things like that. You’ll make me sad. You’re my very, veeery best friend, after all.”
“Veeery best, huh? I guess that means all the others are dead.”
“Tee-hee-hee!”
With turnover as high as it was on this island, one could rise through the ranks of sword-slave life with startling alacrity. The fact that the Hornet didn’t contradict Al was somehow endearing.
Between her unforgettable appearance, the way she talked, and the way she behaved, the Hornet had a way of grabbing people’s attention and never letting go. She was indeed like her namesake; two or three stings of her venom and your life might be over. Compared with a toxin like that, the Poison Hand that Al had fought a few minutes earlier was like child’s play.
“Mistress Hornet, it’s almost time…”
“Oh, I know. If you please?”
It was, believe it or not, one of the guards addressing her in this deferential tone. Orlan’s colleague knelt in front of her and removed the foot shackles she wore in lieu of handcuffs. But the gesture was that of a man bowing before his queen.
This innate capacity to make others grovel before her was where she had earned her nickname, the Empress of the Sword Slaves.
“Well, I hope you have another of your lovely, elegant fights, eh?” Al ribbed her. That earned him a glare from the guard attending the Hornet. “Ooh, scary,” he said. The guard had become the Hornet’s man down to the bone—he probably wouldn’t have hesitated to attack Al if she’d told him to. However, she stopped him instead.
“Don’t be silly. Come, dear, my arms.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Still kneeling, the guard gave a nod, and from down the hallway appeared a low-ranking jailer, his face covered with a scarf, pulling a cart that bore two massive swords. Each was nearly as long as a grown adult was tall, but the hilts were very strangely shaped. That was only natural, as these weapons were exclusively for the Hornet’s use.
“Aaaand here we go!” the Hornet said languorously, turning her foreshortened arms toward the swords. The stumps fit neatly into the empty hilts, settling in with an audible click. Then the woman’s muscles tautened, and she hefted the huge blades easily, even though each appeared to weigh more than two hundred pounds. An ordinary person wouldn’t even have been able to lift one, let alone handle two of them at the same time. That was what made her style absolutely unique—and what made her the strongest fighter on the sword-slave island.
“Won’t you at least watch me fight before you go, Al, sweetie? Pretty please? You’re already here. I want to dedicate my victory today to you and you alone.”
“Thanks but no thanks!” He couldn’t resist another snipe despite the continued glaring of the Hornet’s guard. Even at that, though, the Hornet smiled again and walked past him into the arena. A moment later, there was a loud cheer; she had entered the ring, and the crowd was going wild.
“A’right. I’m going to head back underground and get some sleep.”
“Wha…?! How dare you, ignoring Mistress Hornet like that!” the guard snapped.
“The hell are you talking about? I told her to her face I wasn’t going to watch. She smiled about it. That’s a good enough answer for me. Am I wrong?” Al gave the angry guard a good, hard glare of his own and watched as the man flinched back, overawed.
He was fresh from a fight—just finished risking his life. Apparently, it was enough to make even his blood hot. The guard had seen the Hornet grin and let Al’s comment pass, so he hardly had grounds to press the matter. He could only stay silent, even if he didn’t seem very happy about it.
“Holy hell, does she know how to keep you on your toes! She hardly acts like a sword slave, does she?” Al said. As he walked past the Hornet’s silenced attendant, away from the arena, Orlan fell in beside him. He had practically made himself invisible from the moment the Hornet had appeared, and it had been the right choice.
For better or for worse, the best thing you could do for yourself was never to run into the Hornet. If she took an interest in you, it was a dangerous thing—and if she didn’t, it wasn’t particularly safer. That was an unspoken rule here on the island.
“Hey, at least she seems to like you all right, Aldeberan,” Orlan said without malice.
“Give me a break, Orlan. And I thought I told you…” The one-armed man, Aldeberan, winked at the guard. “Call me Al. You know I hate my full name.”
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