Shadowsoul Page 3

  Crude medical cots line the walls, five with patients in them. Two goblins lay in beds next to one another, one sporting a bruised eye and a broken snout. The other with a bandage wrapped around his head, a small black stain seeping through at the front. Typically this room is only for slaves. It is unusual to see some of Darkmor's free citizens in here. My best guess is they got into a fight over something trivial in the Arena.

  Two other cots hold bloodied gladiators, still in their armor. I recognize them from the line up this morning. One gladiator is missing an arm. The stump is wrapped in a bloody gauze that steadily drips onto the dirty floor. Two middle-aged men work nearby, to heat up a sheet of metal to cauterize the wound. I grimace. I really hope I’m not here when they do that.

  Another gladiator sits on a bed's edge, a long knife in his leg. It is the one the Arachnidias attacked. I am pleased to see he has survived, even if he is worse for wear. He nods to me in greeting, while a middle-aged woman tends him as best she can. But she is frequently interrupted by the goblins who insist on more care than they actually need.

  I can’t tell what is in the last occupied bed. A sheet is drawn over the body; only the woman next to it filling out a form, and the spatter of blood across the sheet gives any indication to the gruesome sight underneath. But I am pretty sure whoever is under it is extremely dead.

  I search the other cots in the room, looking for the man I fought in the Arena, but he isn’t here. There are only two reasons why a gladiator doesn’t go to the infirmary after a battle. Either they died in the Arena, or the guards decided they were beyond repair and executed them. The man was dragged out before me, and he isn’t here. The guards didn’t kill him in the Arena. That leaves one other possibility.

  My stomach twists and nausea sweeps through me. Even after one hundred matches, guilt and remorse riddle me every time. I learned many seasons ago that killing doesn’t get easier with experience.

  I shake my head sadly. Will anyone remember him? Did he have a family? In a few days, his goblin supporters will move on and never think of him again. Did anyone in this awful place even know his name? Or did he die as just another number, like so many before him? Perhaps he will be treated differently because he was a willing gladiator, the son of a scarlet guard. I cling on to that tiny hope and return to examining the cots around me.

  Slaves from the medical faction work throughout the room, their light green jumpsuits stand out against the white walls and the blood on the floors. They tend to the injuries of gladiators and fill out paperwork. I have no idea why they are required to wear such bright clothing. Perhaps it makes them easier to round up in case of an emergency.

  These slaves are under the supervision of an enormous snake-like creature with a broad chest, and muscular arms that are far too long to be sensible. My eyes travel over its body, taking in the flat head and the eight-foot-long form of a cobra. I’d have to be blind to miss the vibrant violet scales.. Intense discomfort and apprehension prickles at my spine.

  Snake people are prevalent in positions of power. Probably because they thrive on the terror of others, and are extremely talented when it comes to causing fear. In the eyes of Darkmor, this makes them well suited for the job. These snake-like creatures call themselves Naga.

  This Naga is covered in dark purple horizontal stripes, which make it clear this one is male. Male Naga are well known for their short fuses and violent tendencies. This one looks like he has just about reached the end of his fuse, and it probably has a lot to do with the squabbling goblins at the back of the room.

  An older woman in her forties with marbled brown and grey hair approaches me, her green jumpsuit stained with splashes of blood. The woman’s blue eyes take in my battered appearance with pity. Her eyes linger on the drying blood on my face and glance over my slumped posture.

  “Sit,” the older woman requests and gestures to an empty bed beside her.

  The guards let me follow the woman to the bed and stand to attention at the door. Making sure I don’t make a run for it.

  I almost laugh. As if I would get far in my current state.

  I glance around the room and notice all the guards in similar states of attention. I have never seen the guards so focused. They usually lounged about, upset the medics, and gawked at the injured gladiators. I put this strange behavior down to the unmistakably aggravated Naga. I guess he makes them nervous.

  The older woman steps into my field of vision and inspects my wounds. After a quick once over, she takes a wet cloth from a bowl on the metal cart beside the bed. The medic wipes the blood and sand from my forehead, uttering various hmm’s and ha’s as she inspects my head wound. Satisfied the injury is clean, she turns to pick up a needle and thread. The woman lets out one last hmm and sets about suturing the gash on my head, just above my eyebrow.

  I am not given any medicine to help with the pain. I sit on the bed in silence and ignore the stinging sensation as the hot needle pierces my flesh, and the thread following it drags through my skin, pulling at my already tender wound.

  I focus on breathing and force myself to remain still for each of my four stitches. The medic’s job is to ensure I live, not to make me comfortable. It’s easier to treat minor injuries than train a new slave to fill my position, but that doesn’t mean Darkmor will allow too many resources to be used on a slave.

  With the last suture finished, the medic attempts to inspect my chest wounds, but my shackles make it too difficult to remove my armor.

  She waves at my guards, and they glare over at us. She calls out, “Can you please remove her shackles, so I can inspect her wounds?”

  A guard with a set of heavy keys grudgingly stomps towards us and removes my shackles before returning to his post. The medic takes off my chest armor and inspects the bruises on my back and sides.

  The older woman checks my broken ribs, giving them a gentle push here and there. Satisfied I am not going to puncture any internal organs, the medic wraps my chest in a tight bandage to stop any unnecessary movement.

  The irritated Naga moves away from the arguing goblins and towards my bed. His lower body grinds across the cobbled ground. Each violet scale emits a horrid scrape as it makes contact with the uneven floor. The unbearable noise only stops when he comes to a halt in front of us.

  He looks down at me with a scowl most people would reserve for vermin and addresses the woman beside me.

  “Will thisss one live?” He hisses in a thick grating accent that is as repulsive as the noise his scales had made across the cobbled stones.

  The medic nods. “Yes. Her wounds are not life-threatening, as long as she is careful. But she would heal faster if we give her an injection for the wounds on her chest-.”

  The Naga’s hand connects with the medic's face and a resounding crack echoes throughout the confines of the medical room, efficiently stopping all conversation and drawing the attention of everyone in the vicinity. Even the goblins stop their shoving match to stare at the Naga, their mouths hanging wide.

  “Thossse injectionsss,” the Naga rages. “Are not for sslavesss! Are you sssugessting her life isss more valuable than a loyal follower of Darkmor?” He hisses, his blue tongue darting out to spit all over the medics face.

  “No of c-course not!” stammers the frightened medic, as she tries to recover from the Naga’s blow. “I only meant, if she could heal faster, she would perform much better at her next gladiator match,” pleads the medic. “Sickly gladiators are poor sport.”

  The Naga’s face contorts into one that resembles thinking. Horrible, scary thinking. Everyone in the room holds their breath waiting for the Naga’s decision. Mere seconds pass, but they drag by as if they were an eternity, until finally the Naga’s face relaxes back into its normal state. Which to be honest isn’t any less scary.

  The Naga crosses his arms. “Ssseeing the exssstent of thisss oness injuriesss and her sstatuss asss a prime gladiator, I will allow it. Thisss time. Finisssh treating thiss one and report to the punishm
ent room for ten lasshesss. For assssuming you can ssspeak in my presssencessse about thingsss you know not,” he commands with a sneer.

  Satisfied with the level of pain and terror he inspired, the Naga slides away, making that terrible grinding sound once more. The room suddenly resumes its normal volume as everyone hurriedly goes back to what they were doing. Everyone except the goblins, who are now sulking in their beds looking anywhere but at each other.

  The medic goes to a nearby cupboard and returns with a needle and a bottle of grey liquid. She sets about preparing the injection, her face already showing a burning red three-fingered welt where the Naga struck her.

  My stomach tightens, I’m the reason this poor woman has spoken up. I am responsible for the pain she will soon endure, all because she wanted to help me survive my next battle. The medic wipes down my arm in preparation for the injection. I gaze at her and whisper, “Thank you, I won’t ever forget this.”

  The woman gives me a smile that lights up her face, removing worry lines and revealing a glimpse of the woman’s lost youth. “If this helps you to live for a little longer, all the pain will be worth it.”

  The Naga slides past, looking incredibly pleased with himself, a smug grin on his snout. His proximity puts an abrupt end to our conversation. Returning to her job the medic collects the syringe filled with grey liquid. She injects me with the needle and the liquid burns through my arm and then across the rest of my body. She ushers me off the bed, and I put my armor back on. I turn to the woman, and I give her one last smile. My eyes linger for a moment on the red welt.

  I nod my thanks to the woman and turn to the guards, who quickly shackle my wrists and rush me from the room. No doubt eager to be away from the Naga and his rage.

  The guards push open the heavy wooden doors and march me down a dark and grimy hall in the direction of my cell, giving me the occasional shove to make me go faster. Their pushes aren’t doing anything to help the pain in my chest and back. But even so, my breathing is less labored, and I can stand a little straighter. The injection must be taking effect. They work quickly.

  Our footsteps echo through the hall. The cold tunnel air bites at me and a wave of goosebumps erupt across my skin. We turn a corner, and I am confronted with the sight of a dark cell.

  This is where I have lived since I was four, with my mother and a revolving cast of others. I spend most of my time in here. The only exceptions are when I am out training or fighting in the Arena. This is more freedom then most slaves have, but that knowledge doesn’t comfort me. It doesn’t help me forget the faces of all the people I have been forced to kill. Some of them lived in this cell with me.

  One guard pulls out his heavy metal baton, and the other one unlocks my shackles and clips them to his belt.

  The guard holds out his hand. “Armor.”

  I glare at him and stand still.

  “Give it to me, or I will take it from you,” he adds flicking his finger at me in impatience.

  I take off my armor, taking more time than necessary before I slowly hand it to the guards but even with my snail paced efforts before long I’m stand in my boots, a navy blue singlet, and dirty grey shorts. The cold air of the tunnels clings to my skin, holding me in its icy embrace.

  The guard gives me a face. “Boots.”

  I hesitate, but the look on his face leaves no room for argument. I grumble as I remove the boots and throw them at him. This is the way it has always been. Slaves can’t own anything. I earned those clothes in the Arena with every fight I survived, but rules dictate I can only wear them for Arena matches. It isn’t fair.

  “In the cell,” the other guard rumbles.

  I stand unmoving, what my mother calls ‘a willful young adult temper’ flares into life at the injustice of it all. The guards grow impatient and seize my arms, trying to force me into the cell. I struggle and kick out. Landing a solid connection to the groin of the guard in front of me. He topples to his knees.

  Two guards from the nearby station come over to help, and the four of them together force me into the cell. They throw me in, and a small gasp escapes me as I land on my side, a sharp spike of pain bursting through my chest.

  The cell’s metal frame rattles as the door crashes into place behind me. I scramble to my feet and glare at the guards as they attempt to help their comrade, who is still on the ground, cupping himself with two hands.

  The man climbs to his feet with a grunt and snarls at me through the bars, “You’re lucky we are forbidden from harming you outside of the Arena. But I will enjoy watching you get ripped apart in your next gladiator match when someone forgets to give you a weapon."

  Suppressing a sigh, I turn into the cell and peer at the floor beneath me. It is covered in layers upon layers of dirt and filth so thick it is hard to tell if the room has ever been clean.

  Strong iron bars make up the front of the cell, each of them thicker than my arm, and coated with a layer of orange rust. Massive stone slabs make up the remaining cell walls. They are stacked high, and roughly fitted so small gaps let in the cold cavern air. In essence, they do nothing to keep in any type of warmth.

  The stench of sweat, dust, and illness would be overwhelming for most people, but I do no more than wrinkle my nose at the smell.

  It’s hard to adjust to the darkness after being in the bright light of the Arena and infirmary for so long. I can just make out the shapes of thin, tattered blankets scattered along the floor, marking the sleeping places of fellow prisoners.

  I scout through the room, searching for a familiar mass of dark brown curls and the deep, thoughtful eyes that belong to my mother. Hoping she is still here and that she hasn’t yet been taken to her shift in the infirmary.

  A quiet cough draws my attention away from the blankets at my feet, and I stare into the cells’corner. Blinking, my eyes make the slow adjustment to the dark. I detect a mass of tangled, knotted curls and the source of the cough. My mother lays in the corner, asleep on a tattered blanket. She tosses and turns, trying to avoid something that exists only in her dreams.

  I hurry over and wake her, doing my best to be gentle. “Mum,” I whisper. “Mum, wake up.”

  She wakes with a start and springs up, looking around in alarm.

  “Claire,” she says, and joy fills her face as she leans over to pull me into a warm hug. “You have returned.”

  She smiles and glances over the stitches and bruises on my forehead. Raising her hand, she cups my face.

  “Of course, I’m too stubborn to die,” I reply, lifting my hand to hers and gently lowering it from my still sensitive face. “How are you feeling?”

  Mother smiles. “Old and cold.”

  I shake my head but my reply is cut off as the guards stumble to stand to attention, one of the knocking over the chair he had been lounging on in the process.

  A big man strolls in, his heavily muscled frame just as commanding as his presence.

  He stops at our cage and sneers through the bars, “Medic 1506 you have ten minutes to prepare for your review.”

  My stomach clenches painfully and I aim my fear and anger at the man in front of the bars. “A review? But she is not due for one for another week!

  I lock eyes with his ice blue ones and a sense of familiarity tugs at me.

  The man cracks his knuckles menacingly. “Now I get the joy of taking something from you as you took something from me.”

  Anger build in my stomach like flames and I stomp over to the bars and glare up at the man. “Surely you cannot force forward a review over a lost bet!”

  My mother moves towards me. “Claire-.”

  “I did not lose a bet.” The man bellows over my mother’s words. I am roughly jerked forwards and slammed into the bars. Pain blasts through my chest and head.

  “Sir,” one of the guards begins. “You mustn’t hurt her she is the Prime Gladiator.”

  “Silence,” the man bellows, sending spit into my face.

  The guard behind him takes a hasty step
back and keeps his words to himself.

  The guard returns his attention to me and I look into his cold eyes, those eyes are so familiar. My stomach drops as realization settles heavily inside it.

  “You took my son from me,” he hisses. “Now I will take the one person you care about from you.”

  With that he tosses me back onto the floor as if I were a rag doll, my mother rushes over towards me and helps me to sit.

  The man with ice blue eyes readjusts his shirt as if our encounter had somehow rumpled his appearance. He casts a half a second glance at my mother. “Your review starts in five minutes.”

  With that he struts from view.

  My mother turns to me. “What did he mean about you taking his son?”

  I wrap my hands around my knees. “He was my opponent in the arena.”

  A soft, “Oh,” escapes my mothers’ lips as she pulls me into a hug.

  I had saved my life in the arena at the cost of my mothers. “This is wrong!” I hiss.

  My mother holds me tighter. “Everything they do to us here is wrong.”

  I look up at her, tears stinging my eyes. “Pushing forward a review though.” I bite my lip to stop it trembling. “We were supposed to have another week.”

  “I passed the last one, I can pass this one too.” My mother says.

  Neither of us point out that the last one wasn’t issued by a man whose son I had just killed. I swallow. “You are the most experienced medic they have. They aren’t going to get rid of you,” I say, and wrap my arms around myself.

  Reviews are usually seasonal check-ups on slaves to make sure they are still more useful than the cost of their upkeep. If you aren’t useful, you are expendable, and the thought they might consider my mother as useless triggers a painful gripping in my heart. The fact that that decision is being led by a man with a personal grievance against me spreads fear through my body.

  “Let’s not worry about it,” Mother chirps, as she turns to sit cross-legged in front of me. “Worrying won’t change their decision.”