My favorite author is Robert E Howard, for those that don't know he wrote Conan. I love his vibrant and bold style, and I have always sought to emulate him.
When Winning is to Lose
Jhary had spent a quiet and reflective evening alone in his quarters. He was by nature a calm and affable man, at ease in most social situations. However tonight he had felt unusually withdrawn. That did not matter, his new Lord had been in no mood for music after today's scare, and the slaver had dined almost alone.
There was as always a lone guard placed on duty at Jhary's door, but there were no chains to bind him. Jhary was free to move as he wished about the house and compound, even if he was shadowed by the appointed watcher. The bard had found this unnerving at first, but as the weeks wore on the idea had become a matter of course. This idea of freedom was by far more palatable than what many others must bear.
He had pondered going to Aurianne's room, but had decided after the events of today his actions may be deemed other than innocent. Tonight as he looked out on the chill compound beyond, he debated for the first time being truly brave. His friend had almost died today. A man who had saved him many times without ever calling on payment. He was sorry this evening the way he had reacted over the incident with the mule in the canyon. He felt ungrateful and stupid, and what of his friend?
The bard sighed, listening to the faint sounds of those housed below carry to him on the night wind. Sounds of human misery and anguish. He was down there, suffering, his friend. Jhary fretted over how he could make a difference, what could he do? He might be able to escape alone, yes, that would not be so difficult. He may even be able to engineer the escape of the beautiful Aurianne if he was clever enough, but what of his friend? He was devoid of ideas, even bad ones.
He pulled the thick velvet drapery to cover the iron barred window. There was no glass in the abandoned panes to keep out the cold. Glass was a commodity that had become hard to come by. The thickness of the plush velvet was all that was available to keep out the worst of the chill. He pushed a chair up against the drape to stop it being blown open and went to the side table to snuff out the candle. He sat in the dark for some time. Why, he thought do our troubles seem oh so magnified by night?
*****
Aran had at first lain in abject misery bound in chains. The dirt floor unyielding beneath him. As his fight wore off his agony grew. He was aware of the taste of his own blood in his mouth, mingled with the grit of the sand from the floor. He tried to raise his head but he could not do so for any extended length of time. His chest and midsection throbbed where it had been raked by the unkind caress of steel. The back of his left knee was on fire.
He exhaled, even that small act hurt. He wanted to cough, though he dare not. He tried to stifle the reflex. However the sand he had inhaled aggravated it more. Losing the fight, he rolled in pain coughing hard, falling back on his face in the dust. It was already growing dark and he was beginning to shiver from the cold.
In the depths of his mind he was despairing. I will be ill this time, this will weaken me. If I weaken I succumb. If I succumb I die. He didn't want to die, but he didn't wish to live. Least not in his present circumstance.
He was chained in such a fashion to prevent him from standing. Not that he was sure he could, even if allowed the freedom to do so. Wrists tightly manacled together, with no slack length of chain in between, ankles likewise. To add to his encumbrance, a short length of chain passed between the manacles on his wrists and ankles ensuring his knees stayed bent in a drawn up position to prevent him kicking. Aran thrashed and struggled against the impediment of the chain. It was a mindless act, with nothing to be accomplished, yet he did it anyway in his remaining fury.
Keith was a hard man but not cruel one. He cared for his charges well, even the difficult and dangerous ones. Though the passage of time and the ensuing misery may have seemed long and unreasonable to Aran. Keith did not make the injured fighter long wait medical attention. The day was drawing in, the dark came early now, eerily so.
Aran looked up though his haze of anger and pain to witness Keith and his entourage of faceless guards standing about him in a semi circle. The men lifted him, and bore him to a cleaner cell. He was placed on his back on a wooden bench, the chain joining his ankles and wrists released. Though his guards were careful to pin his legs and arms to the board beneath strong hands.
Aran made a feeble attempt at defiance, but was stilled by Keith's calm but demanding words. "This will go easier if you cooperate, do you understand?" Thumbs and fingers digging into his slack jaw. Aran looked up to see Keith peering at him intently, demanding some form of recognition. Aran exhaled and his body slumped to dead weight on the table, he groaned and nodded.
He desired to fight his captors. However he had little left. He closed his eyes and let the arena master clean his wounds. Keith attended the simple ones first. In the main most of the angry gashes were superficial. Keith was pleased at what he saw. This man should have come out of that one sided contest in far worse state than he had.
Though his wounds stung as they were cleaned, Aran used the sharp pain to focus on the present. He felt he was slipping away, and he fought the terrible suffusion that was dampening his clarity. His mind was muddy, his head an explosion of pain. He could barely see, and when he did try to look about him the sharp pricks of the candlelight caused a roaring pain in his head.
He gave up and lie back on the hard wooden bench, letting Keith have free reign over his exhausted body. He had not felt this way since he had sustained the terrible wound in his sword arm almost a year before.
