Godsgrave. Jay Kristoff
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racks, picked up a wooden practice blade and a broad oaken shield, fetched them to the executus. The big man pointed the blade at Matteo.
“Come. Show me what you’re made of, boy. Maggot, fetch the lad a cock and something to hide behind.”
The girl nodded, ran back to the racks and returned with another wooden sword and shield. Matteo squared up, adopted a halfway-decent fighting stance.
“Attack!” Executus roared.
Matteo swung his wooden blade with a cry, but the executus blocked the assault with ease.
“I didn’t ask for a fucking kiss, I said attack!”
The boy scowled, launching a series of blows, head, chest, belly. The executus was strong as a bull, but he moved slow on that iron leg of his, and Matteo’s footwork proved surprisingly good. The boy pushed the older man back, sword cracking against sword, dust rising from their shields as they clashed. Mia noted the gladiatii were only sparring half-heartedly, watching the bout with interest.
Matteo grew more aggressive—like Mia, he’d obviously expected the executus to be a master bladesman. But in the face of the boy’s furious attacks, Executus was on full defense. Matteo landed blow after blow against the big man’s guard, utterly dominating, until the executus was pressed against the circle’s edge.
And then, like a bear too early from its slumber, the man came awake.
He shifted from back to front foot in the blink of an eye, moving swift and graceful despite his iron leg. And in the space of a few seconds, he’d knocked the sword from Matteo’s hand, cracked his blade into the lad’s gut, and left him sprawled in the dust.
Executus loomed over the gasping boy, only a thin sheen of sweat on his brow.
“What did you learn?”
Matteo grasped his bruising belly, too breathless to speak.
“The sand is no place for brawlers,” Executus said, his scar creased in a scowl. “It is a checkered board. And on it, we play the greatest game of all. A wily opponent may feign weakness. Allow you to exert yourself and learn your patterns, all without breaking a sweat. Overconfidence has ended a thousand fools who’d name themselves gladiatii. Mark this, or it will be the end of you. Now get off my fucking sand.”
Executus turned to Mia, pointed his wooden blade.
“You next, girl. Show me how many of those thousand priests you’re worth.”
The girl named Maggot handed Mia a practice blade and shield with a shy smile. But Sidonius snatched the weapon from the little girl’s hand, shoved Mia aside.
“Fuck that,” he growled. “No bitch steps onto the sand before me.”
Perhaps it was the heat, or three weeks of eating shit from this man at sea. Perhaps her legendary temper coming out to play without Mister Kindly to keep her in check, or Furian’s dark eyes following her across the yard. Whatever the reason, Mia found her hands on the big man’s shoulders, and her knee buried in his bollocks.
“Bitch, am I?” she whispered.
Sidonius’s eyes bulged as he doubled up. Mia locked her fingers behind his head and brought his face down into her knee. She was on top of him in a heartbeat, fists pounding his jaw, teeth clenched, blood in her—
Crack!
The whip etched a line of agony across her shoulder blades. Another blow sent her scrambling away with a gasp, twisting out of range. Laughter rang among the assembled gladiatii. Executus glared at her, lash unfurled in his hand.
“That is your domina’s property you just damaged, cur. If he falls now in the Winnowing, will you pay her the forfeit of his life?”
Mia rubbed the welt on her shoulder, growling. “No man speaks to me that way.”
“He is not a man!” Executus spat. “He is a slave. As are you. And both of you forget your places. Until you survive the Winnowing at next venatus, you are less than nothing. Now pick up those weapons and show me a scrap of the promise your domina sees in you, before you truly test my patience.”
The girl called Maggot helped Sidonius to his feet, and with gentle hands, led the him out of the circle. Executus coiled his lash at his belt, took another swig from his flask as Mia scooped up the sword and shield with a black scowl. Fury burned in her belly, teeth clenched tight. Mia could feel Furian watching her with those dark glittering eyes, that hunger and sickness coiled in her gut.
And without a word, she struck.
Her attacks were vicious, blinding. Dancing across the ochre sands, sliding between the executus’s blows. But during her training in the mountain, she’d spent most of her time learning Caravaggio style, fighting with a sword in each hand. It wasn’t likely a Blade of the Mother would be traipsing about with a great bloody shield strapped to her arm, and so in all her time, Mia had never trained how to use one.
It was deadweight. Each impact jarring her elbow, her shoulder. And as desperate to make an account of herself as she was, she was still aware enough to know that the executus was toying with her. Letting her dodge and weave and grow wearier by the moment, all the while studying her patterns and setting her up for the kill.
But she was no worthless punching bag or training dummy. She’d be damned if she let him treat her like one. And so, looking to show this man what she was truly capable of, she narrowed her eyes and reached out to the shadows at his feet.
None would have marked it—the executus’s shadow barely rippled. Mia couldn’t quite grasp the iron peg; the suns out here were too bright, her grip on the shadows too weak. But she held the sole of his boot well enough, just as she’d done in the Pit and the Mountain and a hundred times before. The executus’s eyes widened as his stance failed him. Mia swung at his throat, tightening her hold on the shadows and fixing to teach this man who thought her less than nothing exactly what she was worth.
And then she lost her grip.
The shadows slithered from her hold like sand through her fingertips, releasing the big man’s boot. Executus slammed his shield into her face, knocking her backward. Mia tried to twist aside, cried out in pain as his sword smacked across her back, sending her into the dust. The wooden sword crashed down beside her head as she rolled aside, slinging a handful of dirt. But the executus raised his shield with casual ease, countering with a vicious kick from that iron peg, right into her belly.
Mia doubled up and retched, blinded by the pain. Executus skewered the sand beside her head with his practice blade, looked down at her and growled.
“A thousand silver pieces? I’d not have paid a one.”
Mia clawed her way to her knees, dusty hair stuck to the vomit on her chin. The other gladiatii dismissed her with sneers on their lips, returned to their training. Mia slung the shield off her arm, spat blood into the dust.
“Again,” she demanded.
“No,” Executus said. “I sought your measure. And now I have it in spades. Go wash off your defeat. The hour grows late. Your training begins amorrow.”
Matteo walked forward slowly, helped Mia up from her knees. Standing with a wince, she stared across the dusty yard, rage burning inside her. She’d had a grip on the executus’s footing, sure and true. A trick she’d performed countless times before—she should have bested him easily. But something … no, someone, had wrested control of the shadows, and saw her bested instead.
Furian looked up from beating the stuffing from his hapless training dummy, sweat gleaming on his beautiful face. Long dark hair blowing in the warm breeze. Silver torc glittering. Dark eyes fixed on hers.
“Bastard,” she whispered.
The Unfallen returned to his training without another glance.