9
The bald head went flying through the air, a spray of blood arcing behind it. At the same moment, the watching crowd gave its greatest shout of the day, applauding the battle—no, mocking the loser and, for that matter, the winner as well, even as they cheered for him.
“Gosh, that’s quite something. I’d heard they put on death matches here, but I didn’t know they were real, all-out killing. Wonder why.”
“It shows off the worst in people. I don’t understand the people who like watching this stuff.”
Serena’s subordinates, Balleroy and Miles, shared a moment of appreciation—or perhaps lack thereof—for the spectacle they were witnessing.
Balleroy appeared to use some sort of polearm, while Miles claimed to have no fighting ability whatsoever. In much the same way, their views of the sword slaves’ battles seemed to represent two extremes. Well, what with them being like brothers, it could be charitably said that each had what the other lacked.
“What about you, Priscilla? Are you enjoying yourself?” Serena asked. “I see your dear husband is white as a sheet.”
“It’s not bad. The idea of those who have nothing risking all in the fight is an intriguing one,” Priscilla said. “Although, the way that clumsy brute fought just now was not particularly amusing.”
“Clumsy? Ah, you mean the one-armed man.” Serena brushed the scar on her face and flashed a smile that reeked of blood.
Priscilla was talking about the winner of the battle that had gotten the crowd so worked up. The black-haired man had taken the victory, but it had been an unsightly one. He’d played with his big, bald opponent before finally chopping his head off, but the way he had done it had been incredibly unrefined. There was no elegance to his fighting style. Not that she had expected to see any transcendently skilled fighters among the sword slaves, but still…
“I didn’t even detect any attachment to his own life. What in the world is he fighting for?” Priscilla crossed her arms as she rendered her verdict on the ugly man with his ugly style.
It was a reality that many of those imprisoned here on this island were forced into battles they did not wish to fight. And yet each had their own reasons for fighting, winning, and surviving, or so one would expect. Maybe they sought to be reunited with a friend or loved one, or perhaps they were simply after a vulgar kind of fame. Even survival in and of itself could be a motivation in its own right. But someone who didn’t even have that—that was unusual. Someone who didn’t even care for his own life but murdered merely to deal with what was in front of him. It was so deeply…
“Uncouth,” Priscilla said, at the same time as Jorah gave a nauseous gurgle. She glanced over to see the pale-faced count looking studiously away from the arena, his neck and forehead drenched with sweat. Well, she’d known very well that he wasn’t suited to spectate any blood sport. That he had taken advantage of Serena’s invitation to gratify his wife’s wishes to come here was as much as could be expected of him.
“You are a man most unfit for the Volakian nobility,” Priscilla informed him.
“I… I’m sorry… Even I thought I would be able to endure a little more than this, but— Hrk!”
“Your timing is perfect. I was just thinking I’d like to get some air. Come with me,” Priscilla said, and then she took her blanching husband by the arm and got to her feet.
The seats prepared for Priscilla and her party were at a height that provided an ideal view of the fighting, but it was not so high that the stench of blood and fat—the stink of life—didn’t reach them. Jorah was never going to recover his wits while they remained in such an environment.
“Use the outer passageway. Balleroy, stay with them,” Serena instructed.
“What? Why me? I have so much to learn from these death matches— Ouch!”
“Don’t talk back to the high countess! Get out of here, before you embarrass me any worse! And mind your manners around Count Pendleton and his wife!” Miles said.
“Yessir,” Balleroy replied, resigning himself to the task. Then he followed Priscilla and Jorah away from their seats, carrying a long object wrapped in a cloth.
They emerged onto one of the observation decks that looked down on the lake surrounding Ginonhive. Outside, away from the swirling fervor of the arena, the three of them were greeted by salty air. The sun was already sinking, replaced in the sky by a moon red like blood. The dark lake surface reflected it, so that two moons, one in the water and one in the sky, seemed to frown out at the world.
“Sigh… Thank you for your consideration, Priscilla. I’m sorry again. And young Balleroy, I apologize for obliging you to accompany us. You seemed to be enjoying the fights very much,” Jorah said.
“Aw, don’t mention it. No worries at all. I wouldn’t say I was enjoyin’ the fights, not really. Just learnin’ a lot.”
“Is that so?”
“Sure. Anyway, sure not enough reason to stick around there if it would only upset you, Count Pendleton.”
Balleroy had supposedly entered Serena’s service only recently, but he seemed quite willing to speak his mind. It didn’t particularly bother Priscilla, but Jorah constantly seemed anxious that Balleroy might say something the count would be expected to punish. Priscilla spared a glance at her husband, who was as reluctant as ever to exercise the privileges of his nobility, then stared out at the lake.
“ ” She didn’t speak but reflected privately that the sword-slave island was something rather less than she’d expected. She’d been almost excited to discover exactly how significant it was, but seeing the real thing had diminished it in her mind. Although unlike Jorah, she didn’t abhor blood, nor did she feel any contempt for mortal contests.
“In fact, it might be the only thing that gets my blood rushing,” she said. For better or for worse, Priscilla, too, was Volakian nobility. In fact—although she couldn’t speak publicly about it—her blood was as Volakian as anybody’s.
Priscilla didn’t believe personality resided in one’s bloodline, but she, at least, would not look away from the fighters gambling their lives in the arena. It was simply that two bugs fighting in a cage was not enough to excite her.
“Say, Ms. Wife, you’ve got a lot of guts for someone so young,” Balleroy said. “Even my brother Miles was wincing a little, but you didn’t so much as blink even when that head came flying off.” Balleroy glanced over at Priscilla where she stood at the railing looking down at the lake. He leaned against the railing and kicked his legs in the air—hardly the behavior of a servant.
Priscilla, however, didn’t remark on it; she simply replied, “What are you trying to say? That I would be cuter or more lovable if I squealed and shrieked like a common village girl and wailed each time a loser died?”
“Naw, naw, nothin’ like that. Hey, anyone who came out to this island just to burst into tears every time someone kicked the bucket, I think they’d be in real trouble. Besides…”
“Yes?”
“…I’ve got a thing for strong women. Like High Countess Delacroix.”
That remark was even more disrespectful than his posture, but still, Priscilla didn’t say anything about it. There were several reasons why not. She could see that there was no malice in Balleroy’s words or actions. She had judged that he was something special, a vessel it would be a shame to break here and now. And besides—he was, after all, her assigned bodyguard at the moment. As relaxed and nonchalant as he acted, Priscilla noted that Balleroy still regularly scanned the area with an alert glance. Priscilla had known many fighters, and she could see that although young, Balleroy belonged among the best of them. If he was allowed to continue to mature and grow, he might well become a warrior known throughout the empire.
“ ”
Then there was Serena, who’d assigned this man to guard Priscilla and Jorah. Given that it was she who had invited them to the island, one could say it was only natural that she would seek to ensure their safety while they were here.
At the moment, Priscilla did not have a bad impression of Serena. She even treated Jorah, mocked by so many other nobles, as an equal. Priscilla saw no reason to view her with hostility. As such, she thought it would be just as well to play along with Serena’s plan for the time being.
“That’s odd,” she said, arching a shapely eyebrow.
“What’s odd?” Balleroy asked with a wink.
When Priscilla spoke again, she sounded less like she was answering him and more like she was continuing to talk to herself. “When did they raise the drawbridge?”
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