Page 64 of Bloodguard

“Yes.” I shrug.“Except for some wooden swords you couldn’t stab through parchment,weapons aren’t easy to come by here.”

The guards march forward to break up the fight. Not quickly, mind you—like I mentioned, they’re bored to shit. Heene pours a bowl and hands it to the troll who’s smart enough to move away from the escalating brawl. He dips all six fingers of his right hand into the soup and licks them clean. He must enjoy his broth with a dash of dirt and sweat.

Caelen pulls Giselle along to keep pace with me. They had stopped to watch, not understanding the gladiators in the food line were probably going extra hard in the hopes of winning Caelen’s or Giselle’s favor. No. They’re not in danger of being killed. Not here with me. But they will get more attention than they’re ready for.

“They feed you broth here?” Caelen says.“That’s your meal.”

He doesn’t bother calling it fairy elm soup. Probably because it’s not damn soup. It’s just like he said. Broth. And broth is bullshit.

“It has protein, and the cook adds minerals.” I point back toward the barren, rocky expanse that we traveled over in the last leg.“This was a quarry at some point,” I say, explaining.

“They add rock dust to your soup?” Giselle is incredulous.

A pang of resentment builds, and I tamp it down. It wasn’t always like this here. And the circumstances I—we—found ourselves in were not of Caelen’s or Giselle’s making.

I cut a sharp left, stepping over a body. The barely conscious elf came from my homeland of Siertos. He arrived less than a month ago. He claimed he’d never heard of my family and walked away from me into a group of gator shifters that had impressed him more. The bite mark along his bare chest tells me they weren’t as impressed by him.

Every new arrival is “tested.” Some fare better than my countryman did.

The barrack where I sleep is the next one we reach. I think that, like the rest of the buildings, it once had a porch. The pillars that support the overhang remain, but the wall that should separate the outdoors from the indoors is long gone, to create more space for all the idiots like me who were recruited for a game no one really wins.

I step into the empty room, thankful we arrived during mealtime. Dragging two nobles through a barrack full of gladiators isnotmy idea of fun.Our wooden “bunks” are really just stacks of large, rectangular crates, piled five high and open on one side. The bucket of water in the corner is our sink, and the uselessly barred window at the rear is a place to relieve ourselves when the weather is too perilous to reach the shitter.

I arrived from Siertos during one of the worst summers Arrow was said to have endured. I almost chose the bunk in the center, where I could stick my head out and enjoy some semblance of a breeze. But then I noticed that older men, even giants, all chose beds against the walls. There was one left with a few people eyeing it, so I claimed that one for myself. Everyone else took a bed in the center. Though the heat made it tough to sleep that first summer, I thought about hanging a blanket from the top beam for privacy, and I eventually did. Not even for the peace I sought, but to keep out the harsh wind and cold that struck us the moment summer surrendered to fall. The actual walls in this place did little more to buffer against that cold.

When it came to attacks during the night, the middle bunks took the brunt of them. Vulnerable in all directions.

Since then, I graduated to the third level of bunks. I feel for the tear in my meager bed pad, rummaging through the lumpy, straw-filled sack until I find the letters from my family hidden inside. I tuck them into my shirt. It’s the only thing I came here for. The only object in the world I care about. Just holding them grounds me so much that I almost smile, remembering the day I showed Rose how to sneak her letters into the courier’s cart to send for free. In my absence, Beq the ogre may claim my spot. Let him. I’ll take it back, but I’ll be damned if I let him screw with the things I can truly call my own.

I’ve started to lead them out when Pega, Ioni, and Rye saunter in.

“Told ya it was Leith,” Rye says. A gash on his forehead held together by stitches Ioni or someone sewed is bright red and infected.

My injuries aren’t infected, my clothes aren’t hanging by threads, and I’m not dirty. I’m healthy. I’m fed.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt worse.

Rye wipes his dirty face with the back of his hand. It doesn’t do him any good, since his arms are about as clean as his bare feet.

Pega tries to smooth out her bright hair when she sees Giselle.“Nice cape,” she says, not meaning it. The dwarf looks no worse off than the last time I saw her. No better, either.“Ya nanny press it for ya?”

Giselle unfastens her cape and hands it to her.“I’m glad you like it. Consider it yours.”

Pega stares at it hard. She wants it, but we all have our pride. It’s a constant tension, accepting help versus surviving when we can only depend on ourselves.“I’m not your charity case, Princess.”

Giselle makes a face.“And I’m not a princess.” She pulls a large pouch from a pocket hidden in the folds of her skirt. “What I am is your new sponsor who is generous with gifts.”

Ioni tries to take the cape. Pega bites his hand.“Ouch!” he yelps.

“My sponsor, my cape,” Pega tells him. She beams proudly.

Sponsorships used to be more plentiful. But with matches to the death, gladiators aren’t a great investment anymore.

A shadow thumps its way into the barracks. Holy hell. Luther!

Relief showers me like a warm summer’s rain. He’s better, but his leg still looks bad.“Heard…you…here.” He grunts and I think even smiles. I know I do.

“No…touch!” he grunts.

---