Page 11 of Ironhold, Trial One

“And you?” she asks, looking over at Naia.

“I can heal people,” Naia says.

The gladiator snorts. “So neither one of you has a skill that's actually useful in a fight? At least the healer might have a place here, patching up wounds. You…” she shakes her head as she looks at me. “You have no chance.”

She walks off, not even giving us her name. Perhaps she doesn't think it's worth giving it to someone who isn't going to be here for very long.

Naia reaches out to put a hand on my arm. “Don't listen to her. You helped me before. We will get through this together."

That is easier said than done, though. Already, our numbers are lower than they were when we arrived. I try to get some sleep, but that is hard. Now that I am here, everything that has happened to me in the past few days hits me all at once. I cry silent tears because I know that I cannot risk anyone else hearing me cry in a place like this. Eventually I sleep, but that only brings with it dreams of being chased by the soldiers, dragged from the roof again and again.

It is light when I wake, the rest of those in the barracks stirring at once.

“Get up!” a soldier roars. “Back out onto the sands! Did you think we were done?”

Of course, they are not done with us. Those of us who are new file out, and today it seems we must strike at posts and pillars with a selection of different weapons. I can see the gladiators who have already made it into Ironhold watching us. Some seem to be taking bets on which of us will make it through the process, which will drop out quickest. When a young woman drops herweapon, unable to continue, one man in the stands holds out his hand to another, collecting on some wager.

Icy cold floods through me as someone throws water over me, making my teeth chatter. The shock of it is intense, and my every instinct is to stop, to try to take a few moments to recover. But I know that if I do that I will fail. I cannot fail. I keep going, forcing myself to swing the weapon again and again.

More drop out, or are pulled out when they collapse. I am not one of them.

“Halt! That is enough!” Lord Darius moves into the training arena. “Those of you who are left have shown that you have the main thing we look for here: determination. Any fool can show skill, but we canteachskills. Anyone can be strong, but we can build strength. Even magical power is not enough. What matters is that you have the will to continue, and all of you do.”

He stands there, seeming to concentrate. Agony bursts in my shoulder, fire seeming to play across my skin. I know that I am not alone because there are cries of pain from all around me.

I look at my shoulder and see a perfect circle of scorched flesh there, a brand mark, as surely as if they had held me down and pressed metal to my flesh. I’m marked as if I’m livestock, as if I’m nothing more than property.

“That mark represents the colosseum in which you will fight,” Lord Darius says. “It shows the world that you are one of those who has been claimed by Ironhold. It is also a reminder. If you rebel, if you make me do it, I will burn you.”

The threat is almost enough to overwhelm the pain.

Lord Darius keeps going. “Each season you complete, you will earn a mark across the circle. Gain five, and you will be free. From this moment on, you are ours. You will train, you will learn, you will fight. And if you fail… then you will die.”

CHAPTER SIX

In the days that follow, we train, and we trainhard.

Every night, my body aches with exhaustion, my muscles rebelling at everything we’re put through. Each morning, we are set compulsory exercises, lifting more rocks, running, tumbling. We are taught the basic movements of each weapon we might use, in long lines, Lord Darius shouting out the movements as he walks among us, occasionally lashing those who are in the wrong positions with a cane until they correct their postures.

After that, we split up, to work ourselves and with others.

One of the most surprising things about Ironhold is how much freedom we have to roam within it. Soldiers guard the walls and the gates, but they do not try to control every minute of our lives within. We are contained, and that seems to be enough.

We can wander as we wish, and so I do, starting to explore its confines. Sometimes I do so with Naia, sometimes I do it alone. We quickly find the great dining hall, the kitchens, the bath houses, but there are more spaces still: training rooms and store rooms, quarters for those who are wealthier or more successful, places to punish those who rebel or fail.

I can see people watching me in the dining halls, watching all the newcomers, as if trying to work out which will live and which will die, which are strong and which can be bullied.

The female gladiator from before seems to have decided that I am one of the latter. I learn that her name is Gyra, and the two lines through the circular brand on her shoulder suggest that she has already survived two seasons. She watches me as I practice at one of the posts.

“Useless! You can’t even hold the sword properly. You’ll die in your first match!”

“Why don't you leave her alone?” Naia says, from where she’s practicing near me.

“Ah, the healer. You want to watch that pretty mouth, healer, before I give you something to heal.”

“She said to leave her alone.” This voice is a man's, and the man who moves into view is at least as large as Gyra, his body corded with lean muscle. He has auburn hair curling to his shoulders and bright green eyes. His features are square-jawed and surprisingly handsome. A single silvery scar traces across his left cheek, even though the brand on his shoulder says that he is part of the new intake, along with us.

Gyra stands, reaching out for him, but he catches her arm. There is a moment when it seems that she is testing his strength, trying to force him to let go, but then she gives up.

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