The Alliance - 3. Chapter 3

Soft light pierced the captive’s mind and grew stronger in intensity until Alex was able to open his eyes, vision bleary and his head aching. Straightening with a groan, the general’s son briefly wondered why he felt so numb and achy. The skin on his wrists felt raw and chaffed, and he could not make out why he felt so strange. As the fog over his brain dissipated, memory came flooding back in a sudden burst. I have been captured. For a moment, he wondered if his captors were holding him for ransom against his father. No, he thought. That couldn’t be right. If his captors had known who he was, there was no doubt that they would have left him alone. Darion Di Coteau would not have tolerated the disrespect behind attacking a member of his family, and a ransom would have been out of the question. His commanding father would have found his son within hours of receiving a ransom notice, and would have had a few new heads to add to the walls of the manor.

“So he wakes,” a tall man announced. Looking at his captor, Alex noticed a mouth of rotten teeth and hair that hung down the back in greasy, stringy strands. The man was not alone, and began to squawk to his fellows about which brothel Alex would fetch the most money at. Ignoring the babble, Alex stilled, his pupils dilated, and he began to work on his surroundings.

I am in a rectangular room, seated and tied to a chair against one of the long walls. The walls themselves are mostly stone or wood paneling, and there is little furniture. A stack of crates is in the corner of the room to my right, and a circular table is in the left-hand corner. The only decoration is a stag’s head, mounted above the crates. There are no windows in this room, meaning it is either underground or part of a large complex – an inn, perhaps. Three men are in the room with me. The man with the foul teeth is standing in front of my chair, a second bald fellow behind him seated on the crates, and the third, a redheaded man, is seated at the table. When Alexandre looked down, the faintest hint of a smile ghosted his lips. They forgot to tie my legs to the chair.

“My name is Alexandre Di Coteau, son of General Darion Di Coteau, commander to this region. You will untie me, allow me to leave, and I will gift you with your lives.” The room went silent, and the men bore incredulous looks at the commanding voice that Alex had used. Though he thought he saw the faintest bit of doubt on the redheaded man’s face, he knew his words were wasted. After a few seconds of silence, the three men burst out into laughter.

“Aye, that’s rich isn’t it?” Wiping tears of laughter from his face, the man with long greasy hair approached Alex where he was seated. With a resounding smack, Alex was backhanded in the face. Though the young man felt no pain, the affront was a wound to his pride and record as a soldier. He hoped the man relished this slap, because it was the closest anyone would ever get to wounding the general’s son. Looking back at the man who had slapped him, Alex felt ice flow through his veins, and prepared his strike. The men had chosen the hard way, and he would show no restraint. He had expected this response, of course, given that no common thief or underground slaver would expect the son of the great Darion Di Coteau to be so short or lean. Most folks would only have known Alex from the clothes he wore, and a servant’s smock did not present a convincing case. Darion was the figure that the public saw, not Alex. Most commoners probably didn’t even know what he looked like. Add that to the fact that the son did not resemble the father except in the case of a few facial features, and Alex knew that no one would believe him. Darion was roughly the size of a gorilla, and Alex could have passed for sixteen.

The sound from the slap had just barely finished echoing off of the walls when the look on Alexandre’s princely face darkened, and he began to do what he knew best. Time seemed to slow for the boy, and his body worked itself up towards a rhythm that was both lethal and unstoppable. Remaining seated, Alex lifted his legs up to the long-haired man’s face, and put his feet into position. His left foot reached around the back of the captor’s head, and his right heel was planted on the man’s chin. Pulling in the left leg in and pushing the right forward, the greasy man’s head twisted into an impossible position, and the loud snap of his bones confirmed a swift kill. The other two men were startled, and fumbled to get up to put Alexandre down. By the time they had registered what had happened to their friend, it was already too late. Alex had stood, holding the small wooden chair to which he was bound behind his back. He shoved the table with a kick, pinning the redhead into the corner of the room. Ducking a gloved fist behind him, Alex swirled 180 degrees and slammed the chair into the bald man, who had gotten up from his stack of crates. The front right leg of the chair made contact about mid-thigh, and the back right leg had hit somewhere in between the top of the hip and the bottom of the ribcage. With a swift, backwards lash of the foot, Alex made contact with the groin, and the man had doubled over.

By then, the redheaded man had removed himself from the corner and was approaching. Alexandre jumped up stack of crates and onto the back of the bent over bald man. He jumped at the redhead, feet first. With calves squeezing the redheaded man’s face, Alex used the momentum from the jump to arc backwards, rotating completely upside down and then some. He never released the man’s head. His own head had nearly grazed the stone floor, and he landed on his knees, chair still held behind his back and fastened with ropes. The rotation had twisted the redhead’s neck around, and a thin slash of blood painted the wall before him. Alex grimaced as he noticed a splintered vertebrae protruding through the skin. Standing once again, he ran head-on at his final opponent. He leapt into the air, and had both feet planted against the bald man’s chest for a push-off. Instead of kicking to deal damage, this was intended to push the man backwards, which it did. Alex pushed off and all four legs of his chair made contact with the ground. The chair slid back a few feet, and he looked up with a wicked grin. A red spike had blossomed through the front of the bald man’s throat, and maroon rivulets began to soak his shirt. Alex had shoved the man backwards into the antlers of the stag’s head that was mounted on the wall. The general’s son exhaled, and the fight was over.

“Well now… perhaps I was wrong about you.” A sinister, baritone voice made itself known from the doorway to the right, and Alex looked to see a very overweight and bejeweled man giving a toothy grin. Every hair on the back of his neck rose, and he noticed that the man and come armed with archers. Several crossbows were loaded, and pointed directly at Alexandre’s head, where he sat with his arms tied to a chair behind his back. Though he had just demolished three men while tied to a chair, the teen knew he was beaten.

The fat man sighed, and walked over to the table in the middle of the bloody mess that was this room, and picked up a knocked-over wine goblet that had been the redhead’s just minutes before. He sat at the table, and poured himself a glass. “My name,” he said in between greedy slurps, “is Evangelo Mortisse. He paused, waiting for Alex to reply.

“I see,” Alexandre simply stated, unsure as to what kind of reaction he should be having to this news.

The fat man frowned, perplexed that this teen had not heard of him before. “I run most of the underground slaver’s businesses in the great cities of the northern provinces. The men that you just slaughtered were employees of mine, and they reported to me that they had made a good catch last night.” His eyes twinkled. “I did not know how right they were.”

Alexandre’s eyes narrowed, betraying the rage he felt at being brought into the life of this underworld lord. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it on second thought, waiting to hear more of what the man would say.

“Do not fret, boy. Though our original plans had been to turn you into a bed slave, you have pleasantly surprised me. Your frame is not exactly… intimidating, but you do have some fight in you. You will become a gladiatorial slave for me. The Nabian championships are just days away, and I intend to win.”

It took a few moments for Alex to grasp what he had just heard. The wedding. He did not have a few days – he was to be married tomorrow! Looking at his options, he came to a swift conclusion and made his choice. He could either try to escape before his journey to the capitol with Mortisse to return to his father and die for disobedience, or stand a chance at winning his own freedom by winning the gladiatorial games. Maybe then he could find someone who knew who he was in the capitol – his mother came to mind – and return to the manor. By then, perhaps his father would be cooled off… He knew now that he had been removed from Mullansburg, and probably did not stand a chance at making it back home in time for his marriage to Marion Monciet anyway. Not that he was truthfully disappointed, but it would still reflect poorly on the Di Coteau family. Looking Evangelo in the eye, Alex voiced his decision.

“Very well. I will participate in these games at the risk of my life, with the chance of winning back my freedom.”

“Excellent,” the fat man roared. “We will leave for the capitol first thing tomorrow, and should arrive by nightfall. ” Moving from jovial to furious in mere seconds, Mortisse added as an afterthought that the cost of his employees should be made up for in the event that Alex lived through the games. Alex briefly wondered how Mortisse preferred to dole out punishment.

The capitol being only a day away meant that Alex was at least a day away from Mullansburg and the manor, as the capitol was only two days ride from there. I must be in my Uncle Devan’s domain, Alex thought with a shiver. That was not a comforting thought. As the fat man waddled back towards the door, archers in tow, Alex called out after him in a soft, deadly voice. “Mortisse,” he said, an expression verging almost on boredom. The fat man glanced back from the doorway nonchalantly. “Before this is over, know that I will take your life.” The fat man frowned, beckoned, and walked out of the room. Before he could say anything else, Alex felt the sharp prick of a dart in his throat, and quickly gave way to unconsciousness once more.

***

Alex woke up to find a shirtless Carlin leaning over him, checking his eyes and saying something about the fact that he had regained consciousness. Perhaps he is going to kiss me, he thought. There truly couldn’t be a more enjoyable way to wake up. Alex let a lazy smile capture his boyish face, and for a moment was content. The spell was shattered noticed the world coming back into definition. The man leaning over him was some slave doctor, who was neither Tomacian nor handsome. Alexandre panicked and sat up with a gasp, hand clenched firmly over the medic’s throat. After some heavy breathing, he heard Mortisse.

“Let him go, boy.”

Alex looked over at the fat man, who was positively dripping in jewelry. His brows furrowed at whom he recognized as his new boss, at least for a few days. Right. I am not at home. Alex glanced around the room, confused to see marble pillars and a rather long row of beds. They were not uncomfortable. This must be the capitol… we are in the gladiator’s quarters, he realized. I had been knocked out for a full day? Mortisse was in his immediate vision once more, and a stern glance caused him to relinquish his clench on the doctor’s throat. Not Carlin.

“The main fight is in two days. It is the one you will be entered in, and I fully expect that you will come out of it alive. Cost me any money, and I can assure you that it will be your greatest regret. I suggest you rest and rid the anesthesia from your body before then.” Mortisse stood up, and the he and the doctor promptly walked out of the room. The drowsy teen watched the man waddle away, disgusted that this type of person was respected in the greater Nabian mentality. He supposed power did come in more ways than just prowess in combat, but that was much less fun.

Alex exhaled loudly, and flopped back onto his bed.

***

In the course of the next day and a half, Alex spent his time wandering the slave quarters and observing the men that would be in the arena with him. He was not sure who would be on his side during the fight, but he made sure to generate a quick mental list of each person’s strengths and weaknesses. If he were going to do battle with these men and women, he would need to know exactly how they functioned so that he could beat any one of them. Observation and strategizing were two of his own strengths, and he made note of everything he could. This came right down even to their preferences in bed. One slave – obviously taken from a Tomacian territory, judging by the similarity with which he fought to Carlin – was particularly threatening. Alex noticed that he favored a female bed slave that looked to be about twenty, and knew that he would be just as aggressive in a fight as he was in the sack. The general’s son had the misfortune of being just two beds down from the Tomacian, and he was kept awake through most of the first night by load moans and the sound of flesh slapping on flesh. Funnily enough, he should have been doing the same with Marion Monciet that night. I suppose listening to this Neanderthal will have to do. Many of the slave masters that owned gladiators sent their prized fighters bed slaves, in the hopes that draining them of their lust would help them to concentrate on the upcoming fight, and it quickly became clear that the luxury this gladiator was afforded meant he was good. When Alex received his own bed slave, he was more than surprised.

The boy approached him the night before his fight, with eager blue eyes and soft blond hair that had the slightest curl to it. He looked to be about fifteen, and Alex knew what he was there for the moment he saw him. The boy was not muscled in a way that spoke “warrior,” but was attractive in a way that said he was trained in the art of pleasure. Alex looked the boy over, and decided that he must have been relatively new to being a whore. He still had a look in his eyes that showed fear, and did not flinch in the way that told whether someone was used to abuse or not. Ironian. Small, peaceful, and kind-hearted. Alex thought he had probably been enslaved from one of the conquered Ironian regions in the mid east of the country, as those were the closest to the Nabian capitol.

Sighing, Alex moved over in bed to allow the boy to slip in. When the younger teen made to engage, Alex stilled his hands and gave a single command. “Stop.” The boy gave a look that could only be described as a mixture of confusion and relief, and Alex suspected that his master had been renting out the slave frequently in the last couple of days. Lustful war game slaves were aplenty in the city at this time of year, and whoremasters were likely reaping the benefits. Alex knew that there was no way the boy could return to his master without being punished for failing to provide the intended services, so Alexandre let him share the bed the night before the tournament. Mortisse must think I will do him well tomorrow, sending me a gift like this. He expected that the man intended to compensate for his murdered employees with heavy-handed bets.

As he lay there, Alexandre thought of the strangeness of his situation. Here he was, a slave, in bed with another slave, when he was supposed to have just consummated his own marriage to Marion Monciet the night before. The poor noble lady was likely wed to some other violent fool now, knowing that his father would want eyes and ears in the Monciet region of Ironia, even if they weren’t trusted family. Alex chuckled to himself, picturing the girl at the side of a Nabian warrior. She would not last the year. In fact, he would not be surprised if her husband made a public show of cheating on her. This way, he could invoke Nabian separation laws, and challenge her to the death. In the case of a Nabian officer versus an Ironian noble lady, there would be no competition.

Returning to his present situation, he noticed the boy had a slight tremor. Because the only way the two could fit on the gladiator’s bed was side-by-side, chest to back, Alex was almost forced to contemplate the notion of intimacy. Was this what it was like to be intimate? If so, I’m not exactly sure what the fuss is about… there is nothing to this but skin on skin, and another person’s body heat. But that is not right, Alex knew. If the arm draped over his waist was someone else’s…. Perhaps there could be something. It could be enjoyable. Hell, it could even be exciting.

“What is your name?” the dark haired nineteen-year-old asked. It was dark, and the boy jumped when he asked. He knew the boy had thought he was asleep.

“Luca,” the boy replied after a moment’s hesitation. Satisfied with that answer, Alex closed his eyes, and began to drift. He rolled over, letting Luca press a small torso into his more muscular back. If only Carlin was in Luca’s place… no, no. His advice put me here in the first place. I’m going to kill him when I get back home… maybe…

***

The morning arrived, and Luca sat up in bed to find his latest patron awake, doing some exercises and stretches at the foot of the bed. Most of the other gladiators who had bed slaves wrapped around them were still asleep. Luca knew that many of them would not survive the day, and he made his best efforts to quietly get out of bed to return to his master. He did not want to wake any of them, and since the charge he had been assigned seemed to want nothing to do with him, he could return to his own room in a brothel not far from the fighting pit. He was eager to see what food had been made for the whores that day – it might be something special, considering the good mood his master had been in lately. The more coin the whores brought in, the better they ate. At least he would not be sore… when some of the men chose to use him, it could be very painful. Last night, he had not even been used at all. Alex noticed the young man stir, and greeted him a good morning.

That’s odd, Luca thought. This man seemed almost friendly. The day before, he had been sour and curt, annoyed to see that he must share a bed with me. Hesitantly, Luca rose and slipped on a sparse pair of leather shoes.

“I said good morning.”

There it was. That was the bitter person he had met last night. It was strange to Luca that someone could be so angry, but at the same time would not take a bed slave. In his experience, men only showed kindness for some kind of special favor in bed, or simply did what they wanted to him. Luca had never shared a bed with someone that did not use him sexually besides his siblings, but that was a long time ago and they were dead now.

“I pity you, you know. I am sorry that you must live like this. Ironia is very different from here.”

Luca looked up to find a piercing gaze. One look, and he knew that Alexandre had read into his soul, deducing his story and unhappiness. But how did he know I was from Ironia? He would have to work on looking like he was more content. Patrons did not like sad boys, and he had learned to survive. Please the patrons, and you please the master. Please the master, and you are rewarded. He repeated this mantra every time he was forced to enter another bed chamber, or a man came into his at the brothel. Luca did not know why this man pitied him. Nabians were cruel, cold-hearted brutes that that took whatever they wanted whenever they wanted. They did not care for the troubles of others, and certainly did not sympathize. What could a gladiator slave know of being forced into the undesired bonds of ‘love?’ But with a glance back, he knew the man was genuine. He might not have had the warmest expression in the world, but at least he did not look downright cruel. Perhaps he had someone that he cared for, but his position did not afford him the luxury. That would certainly explain his lack of energy in bed.

“Thank you,” the boy said meekly. “I must return to my master.” He turned on his heels and made to walk past the rows of beds in the room out of the door.

“Luca,” he heard called over his shoulder. He turned around to glance at the dark-haired teen, who seemed a bit tense.

“I know Nabian values do not serve the people of Ironia well. I have seen it first-hand. We do, however, advocate taking control of your own destiny. If you don’t like your situation, change it.”

Luca gaped, confused about what this man was saying. Luca could not take charge of his own life… that would be impossible. He was too small and weak, and the people in this land were harsh. Realizing that the words were meant to be encouraging, Luca smiled. Though he doubted he would ever see the warrior again, he would part thinking of Alex as a friend.

“Good luck today. I sincerely hope that you come out of this fight alive, and that I get to see you again." The statement was meant to be halfway seductive, but Luca felt it ring true in the back of his mind.

Alex nodded, and returned to limbering up his muscles. Red, for the power in our hearts and veins, and the remembered blood of our valiant fallen. Black, for the stealth that we possess, and our fearlessness in the darkest of times. It was certainly a dark time, and Alex would definitely need power coursing through his heart.

***

Two days ride to the north, a training slave at the Di Coteau manor grimaced. Another dagger lodged into the wooden helmet he was wearing, and the thud inside the hollow helm was so loud it hurt. The man he had meant to be helping train had disappeared, and his sister had been using him for target practice. Carlin wore thick wooden armor that was uncomfortable and clunky. Instructed to run around Talia Di Coteau’s training courtyard, he was consistently pegged with throwing daggers that stuck into the wood, so that his charge could see where she had hit.

Quite frankly, the girl terrified him. She was beautiful and appeared gentle, worthy of being a princess in Tomacia. Unfortunately, she also took after her father and brother when fighting. Wearing her hair in one long pink braid down her back, Talia had a bloodlilly tucked behind her ear and was wearing a black silk top. Black fitted mail pants and scale-plate boots gave her the look of being both a lady and an assassin, and Carlin knew that she was both. A dagger whizzed through the air and hit his wooden chest plate with a thump, directly over the heart. That’s going to bruise.

“Having fun?” the girl asked sweetly.

Carlin just nodded in his helm, knowing to hold his tongue. Based on the girl’s throws, he knew that she would have no problem lodging a knife in the spaces his wooden armor didn’t cover completely. Though he felt wrong for admitting it, being a Tomacian born patriot… he very much wished to see the face of a certain Di Coteau again.