Ivar's Escape (Assassins of Gravas #2) - N.J. Walters Page 0,1

his body protested. He wasn’t a quitter. He was a fighter. He might not know a great deal, but that much was clear.

He returned his stone to the dark corner, away from prying eyes. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it was something. And it was better than nothing.

Your body is a weapon.

The voice in his head was male, the tone matter-of-fact.

“Who are you?” he whispered. He pressed his fingertips to his temples. He knew better than to try to force a memory. That only made his head pound and his stomach churn. He couldn’t afford to toss up the meal he’d just eaten.

“My body is a weapon.” He scooted back to the cell door and shoved the plate and cup through the bars. If he didn’t, he’d get a beating and then be starved, neither of which was fun.

Wrapping his fingers around the heavy bars, he slowly pulled himself upright. The weight of his body, which was substantially less than it had been, made his thighs quiver. Pain radiated down his back and chest. Beneath the ragged remains of his shirt, fresh wounds were still healing.

Ignoring the relentless and never-ending pain, he used first the steel bars and then the stone wall for support as he shuffled around the perimeter of the cell. Ten steps to the back, eight across, and then ten back to the door.

He’d been in and out of consciousness for two or three days. Maybe more, maybe less. It was hard to say. Lying around only weakened him further. He needed to be as strong as possible in case an opportunity to escape arose.

That he had no idea who to contact if he managed to get free was irrelevant.

His mind was blank, his memories lost.

While he knew the basics of life, had reviewed the geography of the known universe from memory, recited various languages in his head, he had no idea how he knew all these things, where he’d learned them.

Everything about who he was before waking in this hell was gone.

“It will come back.” He repeated the phrase in ten languages as he continued to shuffle, relying less on the walls to keep him upright, putting more and more weight on his legs.

Sweat beaded on his skin, dampening his clothing. He knew he stank but was long past worrying about it. When his captors dragged him out to interrogate him again, they’d dump a few buckets of cold water on him. It was a sad state of affairs that he actually looked forward to it so he could be, not clean—as that was impossible without buckets of hot water and copious amounts of soap—but cleaner.

Standing in the center of the small space, he extended his arms, his fingertips nearly brushing the walls on either side. The newest healing scars protested, but to no avail. He rotated his arms, moving them through a series of exercises that were instinctive.

“My body is a weapon,” he repeated. While his identity was nothing more than a black hole, muscle memory assured him that he’d been trained to fight.

Not well enough or he wouldn’t be in his current situation.

One corner of his mouth quirked up. His brother would kill him if he died.

The thought was fleeting but struck like a bolt of lightning. He dropped to his knees, head lowered, lungs heaving.

I have a brother.

It was a sense of knowing, a part of him.

I’m not lost, not for good.

It was only when hope surged that he realized how close he’d been to losing it. Buoyed by the tiny scrap of his past, he began to flow through a succession of movements designed to strengthen body and mind.

A faint sound reached his ears. He immediately stilled. He’d been so caught up in the workout, and the sliver of hope that the memory had given, he hadn’t been paying full attention to his surroundings.

Stupid will get you killed.

It was the voice in his head again. Was it this unknown brother?

Was that what had landed him here? Had he done something stupid?

He waited, slowing his breathing and listening intently. There was no further sound but someone was out there. There was a change in the air, something he couldn’t quite explain, a sense of knowing.

Trusting his intuition, he sank to the pallet on the floor, rolled on his side facing the bars, and lowered his eyelids. He kept them parted just slightly so he could see this new intruder if they came into sight.

Maybe it was an animal. There were rats.