Captive - Cheryl Brooks Page 0,85

I guess I should.” She looked up at him, trying to decide whether asking for his help in rescuing her friends would be worth the effort. After all, what could one guard do? Stop the fight? Overthrow Pelarus and rescue Moe and the gang? Still, it couldn’t hurt to ask. “I don’t suppose you have any friends who have a grudge against Pelarus, do you?”

“You mean some that will help you and your friends escape?”

“Um, yeah.” She said nothing further, simply standing there waiting for his reply.

“To be honest, there’s lots of us that don’t like him much. In a way, we sort of fought against him by letting you go so many times.”

“Are you saying there was more to it than the honor of catching me?”

He stole a furtive glance down the hall. “You better go. The birds are coming.” He took the last piece of roast chicken, swallowed it whole, and shoved Klara through the doorway, closing the door behind her. The lock engaged with a click.

She started to call out to him again, hoping to arrange a meeting later on. Then she realized that once the “entertainment” was over, Moe and her gang might all be dead.

If so, there would be nothing to discuss.

“Well, I did opt to do both, didn’t I?”

Fortunately for him, Moe wasn’t even out of breath, although according to Zract, his opponents had undoubtedly been given a more sustaining meal than what he’d eaten. Moe had choked down some pretty lousy food in the past—his thrifty mother had served up Suerlin marching rations for weeks on end after getting a shit-ton of them dirt cheap—but he’d never had to go hungry before. Relying on his speed would tap his reserves considerably. Unfortunately, his quickness was the most effective weapon he had left, and it might even turn out to be the only one.

Shading his eyes with one hand, he scanned the stands for a glimpse of Klara.

If he was about to die, he at least wanted to see her one more time. He would never see their babies—not being born, not growing up, not anything.

The door slammed shut behind him. The best he could tell, he was alone in the arena. A scan of the perimeter revealed various archaic, but nonetheless lethal, weapons hanging on the wall, most of them bloodstained from previous battles. Clearly, the transmission of blood-borne diseases was not a concern, but at least Moe would have the opportunity to arm himself. Unless there was some nitpicky rule about having to earn the use of a weapon in some outrageous manner. Either that, or all of the combatants had to form a circle in the middle before being allowed to race to the wall to grab a weapon.

He had time to assess the assortment, some of which he was proficient in the use of, others that he couldn’t identify. A sword and shield were his first choices, but there were also spears that would increase his reach.

The crowd was still yelling, but not quite as loudly. No announcements were being made, possibly because Pelarus hadn’t had time to get out of the dungeons and up to his seat. Moe could make a pretty good guess as to which one it was. Painted gold, upholstered with purple velvet, and studded with gemstones, it sat on a dais like a freakin’ throne.

Wonder why he doesn’t go ahead and call himself the king, instead of the Master?

Perhaps there was some religious ritual for proclaiming someone to be a king. Moe had been to a coronation once—lots of jewels, fancy clothes, and one hell of a crown. There’d been all sorts of clergymen involved in the ceremony in addition to the political set.

A further scan of the crowd revealed no one dressed particularly well. Certainly nothing to match the throne. Pelarus had been dressed in a simple tunic and breeches, along with a plain, floor-length cape when he’d visited the dungeons—not as ragged as the clothes of the spectators, but certainly not fancy enough to sit in that chair. Perhaps he had to change into his court clothes before he could officially open the contest.

Moe tried to sort out what the yelling was all about. He couldn’t decide whether they were shouting encouragement, advice, or just screaming “Die, Moe, die!”

“Fuck this shit,” he muttered. He was heading toward the best-looking sword and shield when the noise from the crowd fell to a murmur.

A glance toward the throne revealed the reason. Richly dressed women filed