Page 23 of Shackled to the Orc

He's pushing himself far beyond any limit. He thinks he’s invincible, or worse, he doesn’t admit to himself he needs rest. I clench my fist, because I shouldn’t care about him. All he’s done is make my life harder, but I want him to be safe, and it goes beyond the normal worry I have for a patient.

I groan as I push the bed towards the wall, busying myself in the work. The floor is dusty, the lamp swinging without oil, and I’ll need to sweep up and clean first. Next, I go to the mess hall, where a couple gladiators are leaning back in their beds, doing nothing, resting after their training session. They are older, in their late thirties, old warriors who have put in their time.

“Hey, I’m trying to set up a treatment room. Could you guys point me to some cleaning stuff?”

One of them, with a scar running over his cheek, points to the side of the room, where a crooked broom is leaned against the wall. It’s got cobwebs running from it to the stone walls. “And fresh clothes?”

“Closet across from us,” grunts the gladiator, not even sparing the energy to turn his head to look at me.

“Thanks,” I say, and take the broom, brushing off the cobwebs, and find the closet he’s talking about. It’s a treasure trove—clean white bedding, rows of fresh clothes, and, luckily enough, oil for the lamps. As well, there’s some bars of soap and rags for cleaning. This must be the storage closet for the cleaner who attends to the gladiators’ quarters, which is why the entire place isn’t a pigsty. There’s a pile of firewood and a dented kettle.

I have to ask the gladiator for help to start the fire, because I couldn’t find flint, which he does with a grumble. He shows me how to light the lamp, which casts an uneven glow, but it’s better than nothing.

First up, getting rid of the layer of dust. The cleaners obviously ignore the empty rooms. I get to work, losing myself in the reassuring, rhythmic movements, sweeping the dust out of the room then scrubbing every inch of it with soap and hot water. Then I replace the bedding. I hope the cleaner doesn’t get in trouble, but I rip even strips of cloth from a bedspread, which I can use as bandages. When I’m nearly done, a wave of stress pulses over me.

I’m preparing this place like I plan to be here for years.

Someone clears their throat from behind me. I turn to see Peter standing, nodding his head in approval.

“Nice work here.”

“Thank you. I need a hell of a lot of medical supplies, but it’s a start.”

“If I get a broken arm, I’m going to you, not that drunk bastard up in the estate.”

I give him an expectant look and wipe the sweat from my forehead. I’ve been working hard, and the rough cloth of the vestment is sticking to me. I saw a few pieces of clothes that might have worked in the closet, but I don’t want to steal from some gladiator, and plus, I’d rather change after a bath.

“Oh. There’s a guard waiting for you. Shug wants to see you.”

“Oh, yeah,” I say, trying to keep calm, while inside my heart races.

“He saw you help Brenn, he probably wants to see if you need supplies or something. Always looking out for his investment.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

I walk past him. “Hey, Maya. What you did today for Brenn…no one really looks out for us. Khan does though. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him. And I feel like you’re the same.”

“I better get going,” I say, feeling awkward from the praise. Families would sometimes bring me gifts after I helped one of them, fresh baked goods, flowers, and people in the village always came by if we needed anything. It took me a while, but my mom told me to do my best to accept the gifts graciously, saying that the gift-giving was more for them than for me.

Now my home feels so far away.

I smooth my wrinkled clothes. If the pitmaster is annoyed I’m showing up unkempt, he’s just going to have to deal with it. I walk down the long corridor, and past the iron bars of the first layer of security stands a bored-looking guard. A handcuff dangles from his hand. “Is that really necessary?”

“Turn around, put your hands through the hole,” he says, and I do as he orders, feeling the irons clap around me. Then he opens the door, and I walk through into the entrance hallway, before the iron-clad wooden front entrance. He knocks, and the wooden panel opens, another guard looking in, then opens the door.

I don’t know if Shug is paranoid or just smart.

The evening breeze cools my sweaty skin, making my rough clothes stick to my body as I am walked up the gently sloping hill to the powerful opulence of the pitmaster’s estate. As I get nearer, it’s obvious that the façade of beauty masks the true nature of the manor. Huge pillars, thick stone walls, battlements and slit-like windows, sitting atop an easily defensible hill. The ramparts are crawling with guards, some with huge crossbows attached to the stone walls on pivots, too heavy for a man to lift, and they don’t look bored of their jobs.

The front wooden doors, iron barred and imposing, are opened by a pair of burly guards, and I am escorted into the entrance hall of Shug’s huge estate. The grand half is illuminated by huge chandeliers filled with candles, and as I glance upwards, I note the shuttered windows on either side of the twin staircases curving up into the fortress. I’ve got the feeling those windows have guards with crossbows on the other side, and that they can pour down hot oil if he is attacked.

The paranoid pitmaster even went so far as to have me handcuffed as I am marched up the winding staircase. The guard walks behind me, and I take each step carefully, not wanting to trust him to catch me if I fall.

A surge of longing for Khan rushes through me. With him at my back, I wouldn’t be scared of anything.

I’m taken through a long hallway lit by swaying oil lamps, casting an eerie glow on the hunting trophies lining the walls, the heads of lions, huge elk with antlers that stretch farther out than I could outstretch my arms, and the pelt of a dire wolf with fangs that gleam, the black, glass eyes of the creature seeming to watch me as the fire lights on them strangely.

The guard takes me onto the balcony, where Shug is at a small wooden table, leaning over a plate of bony pink fish, which he picks at carefully with a fork. His face is fleshy and tanned from long days in the sun, his beady eyes with a cunning to them as he turns his head to watch me. He waves at the guard. “Uncuff her.”

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