8
“Did you hear, Al? They say a sky-dragon ship is here! A sky-dragon ship!” Ubirk exclaimed, distinctly excited, just as Al was placing a hand on the wall and trying to stretch the ligaments in his leg.
Another day’s work, another day risking his life—that was how it was for the sword slave Al here in this awful place. The entire country might be celebrating the coronation of a new emperor, but Al still had his job to do.
“In fact, that celebration means the spectacle’s gonna be bigger than ever around here,” Al muttered.
“I can’t believe I missed the sky-dragon ship!” Ubirk said. “You’re lucky to see one of those once in a lifetime! I must be the unluckiest person in the whole world! Al! Are you listening, Al?”
“Shut up already! Can’t you see I’m tryin’ to stretch?!” Al was busy making circles with his hips as Ubirk flitted around him.
He felt bad for Ubirk, he really did, but in Al’s opinion, Ubirk was at least lucky enough avoid ending up in death match after death match. Al was constantly in danger and fighting for his life, put on display until his luck finally ran out. That was how a sword slave lived and, ultimately, how he died. Ubirk might have wound up on this island, but he hadn’t been sucked into that murderous system, and that seemed good fortune enough to Al.
The ingratiating smile disappeared from Ubirk’s face, and he said quietly, “That doesn’t change the fact that I’m forever getting either tortured or ignored. From where I’m standing, I don’t think I’m luckier than you at all, Al.”
Al likewise dropped his voice. “A male prostitute, acting like he’s the same as one of us sword slaves! Hell!”
It was the kind of brutal remark that could have kept two people from ever speaking on civil terms again, but Ubirk only grinned. “You’re ruthless,” he said, scratching his head. “I guess as long as I don’t know how to use a sword, I’ll never be able to be your friend, huh, Al? Guess we’ll be just acquaintances our whole lives.”
“Don’t assume you’ll never swing a sword in your lifetime. You might get by on being all cute and personable right now, but you never know if it’ll last. Think about where you’ll be ten, twenty years down the road.”
“What about you, Al? You plan to be here another ten years? There’s perseverance, and then there’s playing real hardball.”
It rankled to hear it, but Ubirk was right. The idea of surviving ten or twenty years on this island was outright ridiculous. Al was likely to fall long before he reached those milestones. Maybe next year, maybe next week. Or maybe his time would come today.
“So why not, Al? Before you end up like…”
“ ” Al didn’t answer.
“If the best you can do is sit here and wait to die, why not take up arms against your destiny? If you joined us, Al, you would be worth a hundred men!” Ubirk must have noticed something in Al’s narrowed obsidian eyes, because he spoke with fresh fervor.
He was rambling about his baseless, senseless revolution again. Don’t just stand there! Arm yourself! Fight oppression! It probably felt good to him, whipping people into a frenzy with that kind of talk. But as for Al…
“Thanks but no thanks, kid. I’ve got nothing to do here but fight like hell and survive.”
“Al…” Unusually—indeed, perhaps for the first time—Ubirk began really, truly arguing with him. “Okay, but then why do you fight? If you win, that means someone else loses—and dies doing it. I don’t think that makes any sense!”
“It makes perfect sense. I just ain’t got any reason to die.” Al’s voice was cold.
Ubirk looked like he wanted to say more, but they could see someone coming from the direction of the lobby to collect Al for the fight. It was Al’s guard, Orlan. If he was here, that meant it was time.
“I’ll be back. Or maybe I won’t. Just in case, you go ahead and eat. Don’t wait for me.”
“You’ll be back, Al. I know it.”
“You sound like the perfect heroine. ’Course, if a girl said anything like that to me, I wouldn’t know what to do…” Al was careful to act nonchalant, lest he wind up on the Ubirk dating-sim route.
Orlan chaperoned Al to the arena, Ubirk and the various sword slaves he knew watching him go. He wore the handcuffs on the way—he had to—but as soon as his beloved sword was in his hand, Orlan said, “Stay alive out there, Aldeberan. Like you always do.”
“You know the one problem with you? Your memory sucks,” Al said, smiling grimly as he stepped out into the arena. He’d told Orlan not to call him that.
The moment he entered the arena, he was showered with shouts and cheers from the spectators enjoying their dark little hobby. Al gave a deeply sardonic bow, but he wasn’t above playing to the audience. He would never be their friend, but having them on his side couldn’t be a bad thing. Just one of the survival strategies Al had learned during his ten years as a sword slave.
“Gotta say, this place is pretty lively today… Might be just another death match, but maybe there’s something to this new-emperor stuff after all.”
The entertainment offered by the sword slaves on Ginonhive was exactly the same as it always was, but it was clear the audience was significantly larger than usual. All the more reason to stir them up, get them to give him whatever help they could in his bid to survive.
“Ladies and gentlemen in the house seats, all our dear guests in the VIP rooms, and everyone watching from the roof, please make sure you’ve got your biggest handkerchiefs ready…yeah?” Al smirked, then calmly brought his liuyedao sword into a fighting stance.
From the tunnel directly across from him, his opponent emerged—a large, bald man clasping a broadsword in each hand. His body was covered in visible sword scars, showing that he, too, was an experienced sword slave.
You never knew who you were going to fight until the day came. Honestly, Al had always wondered when he would be pitted against the Empress of the sword slaves, the Hornet. He was just as glad that death sentence hadn’t been handed down today.
“Eh, neither of us is lucky. Nobody’s fault. Blame the fuckin’ stars.”
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