Chapter 7
Arrival at House Firebridge
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Disclaimer: This story is not meant as 'erotica', but dark adventure-fantasy.
It may contain material that sensitive readers might find uncomfortable.
Please be advised.
The sound of the old wagon's knobby wheels clicking along the cobblestones formed a strange cadence of discordant music, accompanied by the rhythm of the hooves of the horse pulling it and the ever-present clatter of the many loose parts. In a strange way, it seemed almost comforting, a steady noise to focus on and lull the mind away from reality. Huddled into a corner of the large rattling cage built atop the wagon, Leita put all her attention into the sound, wanting it to drown out all the other voices around her.
Nearly all the other slaves in the wagon whispered among themselves; whispered about her. Sold for two hundred gold coins, a sum so far above the meager prices that each of them had earned, that it felt unrealistic. Only a few others had been sold for even as much a single crescent, and those for less than a coren's worth.
Most of the whispers were speculation as to what she must have done to have garnered such a price, to have been so fought over by the most prestigious Houses. Though she tried not to listen, the parts that she caught bothered her more than she liked. Most assumed that she'd mercilessly butchered the gladiator she'd fought like some kind of monster or exhibited some mystical force that had reduced him to ash. Others made suggestions that she'd actually never fought her lot, but cut some sort of deal to be a pleasure slave.
Strangely, she found these later ideas to be unexpectedly insulting to her, as though it belittled her actual victory. She'd expected the fact that she'd killed someone to have been a much heavier burden on her mind, but while it still boggled her mind to consider, she'd found herself quickly coming to terms with it. In fact, as the full realization that she had lived through the ordeal had come to her, she'd begun to feel a kind of pride at not just surviving, but winning. There was no question in her soul that he'd have killed her, knew that he'd have had no mercy on her in the last minute.
She'd killed to survive and, to her surprise, was prepared to do so again, if she must. What this said of her, she didn't know, but she also didn't feel that it made her a monster, some savage beast like the other suppositions cast her as. She would not reveal or delight in killing, but she would not shy away from it either. She'd simply decided that she would not be afraid, no matter what she had to do to reach the other side.
There was a sudden lurch as the wagon came to a halt, guards stepping down from their perches at the wagon's rear. She watched as they directed one of the other sold slaves to the door of the cage, brandishing spears to discourage any of the others from considering the idea of trying to take advantage of the moment. The slave, a battered, bandaged, and limping man, had to climb slowly and carefully out, hands and ankles still shackled, allowing plenty of time for the other occupants to try bursting past. However, none seemed all that interested in attempting an escape, nor were they likely to have gotten far anyway, being similarly shackled.
The truth was, most of them seemed relieved to be going to one of the gladiatorial Houses. They would be fed well there and taken care of, if not given much luxury. They would be properly trained how to fight in the arena, given proper armor for protection, and even be able to earn some level of favor. Good fighters earned perks and privileges, got pampered if they became great. And then there were the stories of rare gladiators who did so well that they were granted freedom. Even Leita had heard such stories in her sheltered existence.
However, such a thought seemed pointless to hope for to Leita. Even if such stories were true, they were undoubtedly very rare and only for those who'd become like living legends. More likely, they were not 'rewarded' with freedom, as much as left so crippled from their time fighting that they were good for nothing else. She held no delusions that she would rise to such levels of talent for combat and did not want to contemplate being left so maimed as to be of no use.
She had been born a slave, had long ago made peace with her place in the world as one, and had no real ambitions to be anything more. She wasn't sure she'd know what to do with freedom, what to do without someone giving her a purpose and direction. It would be enough that she might get earn some kind of leisure, that she might never have to spend her afternoons with a bucket and brush washing a floor.
Perhaps that was why she felt so at peace with now being a gladiator, despite the dangers it brought. Whether a slave with a scrub-brush or a slave with a sword, she would still be just a slave. At least, in this role of slavery, she might find herself standing atop one of those wagons in the parade for next year's Ba'lyn Ur Shae festival. It would be her looking up at the people in the windows and inviting daydreams of what it must be like to fight in the arena.
To fight in the arena. The phrase seemed out of place in her head. Like this were all just some dream she was having back in her cot at the Baron's manor. It seemed unbelievable to think of herself as a 'gladiator'.
"You!" A voice cut through her thoughts. "The small blonde girl." A guard gestured to her. "You're next."
She'd not even noticed the guards having returned from escorting the limping man to his buyer. It took her a moment to realize she needed to stand up and come to the door of the cage, the guards looking more irritated by her hesitation by the moment. Rising awkwardly due to her own fetters, she glanced at the other occupants of the wagon as she shuffled over, momentarily wondered if she'd someday see them again out on the sandy floor of the arena. Wondered if she'd be expected to kill any of them.
"Stop dallying!" The chief guard barked impatiently. "Get out and follow."
Numbly, she disembarked and took a place between the men, shuffling along a short way down from the wagon. Reaching a gate, the lead guard pulled a chain that rang an unseen bell on the gate's other side. A few moments later, the gate opened to reveal yet more guards and a well-dressed woman. She was not the woman who'd purchased her, but seemed no less charismatic and confident. Rich blonde hair expertly woven up into an intricate weave of braids and ribbons, clad in red and gold, her engaging blue eyes took in Leita appraisingly for a moment, as if deciding whether to accept her or not.
"You are incredibly smaller than I expected." She said curiously, her voice as lovely as she was. "For what Sabrina paid, I had expected..." Her gaze shifted to the lead guard. "Are you sure you brought the right slave? This can't possibly be the girl."
The guard glanced down a moment at Leita, looking dwarfed by the brace of tall armored guards around her, and seemed uncertain himself. Finally, he turned back and nodded. "This is the girl. She's wearing your House's chains." He affirmed, seeming almost amused by the fact. "I'm sure the Mistress will get her money's worth."
The woman frowned at him, seeming completely unamused. "Fine." She gestured to the men with her, who took the places of the wagon guards as they moved away. "The Housemistress thanks the Arena." She said with a perfunctory bow to the head guard, somehow making the sentence sound like a dismissal.
Ushering her inside, they closed the gates before the woman produced a key from a chain around her neck. "Remove the lower chains please, her legs are short enough as it is, I don't want to have to be further slowed because she can't take a full step."
One of the men knelt and unlocked the shackles from her feet. It had been the first time they'd been removed since her fight in the arena and she had a strange sensation of being partly naked without the feel of bands around her ankles. For a moment, she wondered if they would remove the chains and restraints from her wrists as well, but the guards merely returned the key to the woman, who placed it back on the chain about her neck.
Turning, she began leading the little procession through a brief front garden, fastidiously tended hedge-work and flower beds artfully arranged about the sward. The fragrant air of the flowers floated about Leita as they strolled, a few rare-looking birds flitting about the greenery. It seemed so beautiful and peaceful, not at all what Leita had expected in her mind.
Ahead of them loomed a large house that seemed a merger of elegant noble's manor and sturdy fortress. Beautiful eaves and architecture blended with guard-walks and reinforced battlements. More than a few eyes watched them approach from above, crossbows armed and ready to stop anyone who might decide to run.
"You are now a gladiator of House Firebridge." The woman announced as they approached the main doors of the building. "You are the property of Housemistress Lady Sabrina Marlowe. My name is Cookie."
Leita blinked in complete surprise. 'Cookie'? She'd expected a woman so beautiful and regal-seeming to have a much more elegant and exotic name. Apparently, Cookie was aware of the expectation, as she paused to glance back at her with a bit of interest to see her reaction, an impish gleam in her eye.
"Cookie is the name I was given when I, too, was a slave." She explained, her voice filled with a sort of pride. "I served my Mistress so well that I was granted freedom, but I chose to remain with her."
"You were a gladiator too?" Leita asked without thinking, instantly bracing for a rebuke for speaking without permission.
"Of course not, dear." Cookie laughed, as though the idea were ridiculous. "I was a pleasure slave." She gave another laugh after a moment, misreading Leita's growing surprise. "I am versed in over a dozen musical instruments, adept at singing, and even compose decent poetry, darling. Our Mistress enjoys her entertainments." She smiled that sly grin again. "And occasionally enjoys the company of another beautiful woman in her bed."
