Sinon continues to glare at me with his egg-shaped head, so I even go so far as to put my forehead to the ground. Sheesh.
I figure a little kneeling won’t matter if I don’t mean it—and I don’t. I have no idea who Aron of the Cleaver is, after all. Clearly a god of some kind in this strange land. Maybe a war god, given that there’s a lot of guys covered in armor around here.
My owner continues to sit in front of the statue, eyes closed, meditating. When this goes on for a while, I sit up and study my surroundings. The statue’s made of marble, and the man behind the upraised battleaxe—Aron of the Cleaver—doesn’t look friendly. Most of his face is hidden behind the axe itself, but his hair is long and straight, held back from his head by a braid at the crown, and his stern, unyielding face has a long, wicked scar that goes from above the left eye all the way down to the jaw.
Pretty sure he didn’t get that from playing darts.
I continue to sit, watching my surroundings. More soldiers move past. Some pause to bow at the statue, some just pause, kiss their sword pommel and continue on. Definitely a war god. Maybe that’s why they were watering plants with helmets.
Though if this is a war god’s temple, why am I here? Why does their prelate want a tart? And what the hell is a cleaver bride? A nun of some kind?
Of course, I’ve been asking the same question for two days. Ten bucks says I’m not going to get an answer anytime soon.
I stare at the statue. If I’m in a new world, maybe the gods can send me home. “I’ll be your best friend, Aron,” I whisper. “Just get me back to Chicago.”
Sinon gets up. He wipes his brow, sweating like a pig in his heavy armor. I move into place behind him. My neck is throbbing from how many times my chain has been yanked, and I’m tempted to pull a Princess Leia on this guy and grab my chain, loop it around his neck, and choke the life out of him.
We head into the temple itself, past columns shaped like swords and statue after statue of the scarred, angry-looking god.
A pair of men in red robes wait by the portcullis. One raises a hand to us. “Halt.”
My owner stops and effects an ornate bow. “Sword Sinon Dantali, here for the annual Anticipation.” He straightens and then gestures at me. “I’ve brought an offering for the prelate.”
“A blonde, I see,” one of the men says with a smirk. “Original.”
“The prelate knows what he likes,” Sinon says.
“Truth. And it’s not like the Butcher God will show his face tonight.” The soldiers bark-laughs, and then one grabs my lead from Sinon. “Put her in with the other offerings.”
4
In the antechamber, it’s immediately obvious who the other “offerings” are.
The room is filled with women of every shape and size, all attractive. Some have huge breasts, some are waif thin. Some are older than me, and some look barely old enough to be in high school. They’re all dressed in the long white loincloth and belt that I’m in.
They all have blonde hair.
The other slaves barely spare me a glance. Most gossip in low voices, oiling their skin and smoothing their hair. Some frolic near a fountain in the tiled courtyard, giggling. It’s almost like I’m backstage at a beauty pageant, waiting for my turn to go on.
“Got any mascara?” I ask the girl nearest me.
“What?” She frowns in my direction and moves away.
“Never mind. It was a bad joke.” I sigh to myself, looking for a friendly face in the room. “I guess I’m just talking for the sake of talking.”
Another woman stares at me as she walks past.
The antechamber tiles of the floor are cool beneath my dirty feet as I walk around. There’s a colonnade along each wall with more of the sword-shaped pillars, and I study the others. There must be at least thirty or forty blondes. Cleaver brides, I wonder?
Now if I just knew what those were…
A young girl sits by the wall, her legs tucked under her, tits out, her blonde curls pulled into an artful knot atop her head. She looks way too young to be here, but I’m guessing no one asked for ID at the slave pens. Still, she seems approachable, so I make a