Page 32 of Chained to the Horned God
She steps forward, suddenly. Her hand brushes my jaw—light, hesitant, sacred. I lean into it without meaning to.
“I’ll be here,” she whispers.
I nod once.
That’s all we say before I walk out, the gate slamming shut behind me like the mouth of some waiting god.
9
VALOA
The arena’s roar is never far now. It follows me into the infirmary, where the air tastes like vinegar and rot, and the walls sweat with condensation and old blood. The tournament has turned this place into a slaughterhouse. Every day someone dies. Every night someone arrives with fresh wounds or fevered lungs. The stench of death clings to the torches and tarnishes the stale air.
Sharonna, the glory of the pit, lies inert on a cot tonight. I’ve never seen her this still, this quiet. She’s pale beneath her dark hair, chest rising in shallow gasps. Her breaths echo faint in the hollow chamber filled with groaning bodies. Even the guards pause before her bed. She’s the star they all bow to. But here, the star has gone dim.
I work and stitch until my fingers go numb. My threads fray, soaked in sweat and antiseptic brine. My back aches. My knees protest from crouching beside slabs too narrow to cradle so much broken flesh. I yank off bedding from a cot that belonged to someone now gone, twisting the cloth into tourniquets stiff with dried blood. When a man’s arm bleeds harder than his rib cage can keep, I wrap it tight until the shaking stops.
The wail of distant fighting bursts through the walls like a reminder I don’t want. I fling open the door and shout at the nearest guard. “Get me water! Now!”
The guards stand silent like stone, unwilling. I repeat the order until fingers tremble. A bucket sloshes into existence. Water stinks of iron and dust, not clean. I pour it into cups and press them to fevered lips. I drip cold fluid from my fingers into eyelids sealed shut. I hold tarked towels to scorched ribs and whisper nonsense—praise, prayers, anything to make them stay.
Faces blur now. I don’t see the men and orcs and dark elves I stitch. I only see the wounds. The ragged scars drained of life. The invasive clean water burning through infection. I don’t see the person inside.
A scream rattles the room. A new gladiator collapsed. I rush to him, part the crowd of sick onlookers to press my fingers into his bleeding leg. I don’t see fear. I only see death wanting to come.
It continues like this until the echo of horns far above signals end of the day’s fights. A hush falls over the infirmary as if no sound should follow that trumpet. For a moment, there’s nothing but the drip of water, the soft hum of broken breathing, and the faint click of chains being locked down.
Then Barsok staggers in. He leans against the lintel, each breath catching ragged through the slash across his chest. The wound is gaping, exposing muscle pink and slick beneath torn fibers. Blood seeps out, a slow but determined drip, staining his armor and turning sand-brown rags red.
I nearly lose myself in the sight.
I run to him, nearly collapsing on my knees before I can get my fingers moving. My hands shake as I press a cool cloth to his wound. My fingers slip on the slick muscle. I taste copper and fear.
“You said you wouldn’t let them break you,” I whisper, voice trembling.
He doesn’t speak. He stands so tall and wide, shoulders heaving, chest heaving, whole bloody torso still upright beneath the wound. His breath hisses when I lift the cloth to clean the edge of the slash. Steam rises from his skin where cold water strikes fresh blood.
“My god,” I murmur, panic rising. “Why didn’t they stop you?”
He closes his eyes for a moment, pressing my hands to his sides to keep from clutching the wound. His voice rumbles low, like distant thunder across the cliffs: “They haven’t.”
My throat burns—tears sting behind my eyes—but when I look up, he says, almost too softly: “Yet.”
I press another cloth. Bandages. Salve. Shut the wound closed again as best I can.
His chest rises and falls under my chest. His breath steadies. I don’t speak. We both know that ‘yet’ is full of teeth.
When I finish, I slide back so my palms rest on my knees. He stands, shaking slightly, blood dripping off his chest onto the filthy tile.
“I’ll rest,” he rasps, voice raw.
“You have to,” I whisper.
He nods once, stiff. Turns and lurches toward the cot.
I follow him without thinking.
He collapses into the bedding like he’s never slept before. His chest still bleeds through the bandage, but he doesn’t gasp. Just lies there, eyes turned toward the ceiling and silent like a storm gone quiet.
