alcohol. As his teeth closed hard against it hands gripped his shoulders, held fast his head, immobilised his thighs and calves. Strong muscles pressed him hard against the plank. Wetness streamed over his torso from cloths soaked in a stinging liquid as they moved to wash his wounds free of dried and oozing blood. A momentary coolness followed by a sudden torment of searing heat.
Dumarest reared, trying to turn, to escape, fighting the hands which held him, knowing what was to come. He smelt the acrid odour of burning tissue as red-hot irons moved over his body, tracing the paths of his wounds, welding the edges of the cuts together, searing, sterilising, cauterising. Throwing him into a seething hell of agony.
Then it was over, the hands rising to return his freedom of movement, someone thrusting a disposable cup of brackish water into his hand.
“Drink it,” said Gastar. “It’ll help. Then you’ll have to move. We need the space to work in,” he explained, adding, unnecessarily, “We’re busy and can’t waste time. Just get up and take a seat in the infirmary. Through that door and down the passage. You can’t miss it.”
A journey down a path of torment from his wounds which led to a drab chamber fitted with benches and others who had received the same treatment as himself. Older men sitting slumped, some with their heads in their hands, others whimpering with the pain of their injuries, all sharing one thing in common. They had lost-the winners had better accommodation.
But Dumarest had not lost.
He sat, waiting for some strength to return, some anger at the injustice to stiffen his determination. Another door led from the infirmary and he took it, stepping out into a domed chamber, a desk at the far end, uniformed officials at their posts. Security guards to maintain order and he selected one at random.
“Sir!”
“Can I help you?”
“There has been a mistake,” said Dumarest “I won my bout but am being treated as if I’d lost it.”
“Your name?” The guard frowned as Dumarest gave it. “I must have seen the event. I’ve just come off ringside duty. Third blood. Right?”
“Yes.”
“Against Maroc.”
“He cut me twice then I managed to cut him in turn. The third wound and I delivered it so I won. Who do I have to see to correct the error?”
“Have you a promoter?”
His lips thinned as Dumarest nodded. “I figured it had to be something like that. You’re too young to do this without help. What’s his name?”
“Dell Bellagon. Do you know him?”
“The name’s familiar. Some scum don’t give a damn who they hurt.” Looking at Dumarest’s torso he said “One thing bothers me. You said Maroc cut you twice then you cut him back in turn. But you’ve been wounded three times. Two pretty bad slashes and one not so. How do you explain this?”
“I can’t.” Dumarest blinked and grabbed at the desk to steady himself. The desk and those manning it were blurred and the air was full of mist. “But I did win the bout and I earned the prize. I want it. I won it and it’s mine. I need it.”
“To pay off Bellagon? The debt you owe him for food, clothing, housing, travel? I know how it works. Hey!” The guard reached out and caught Dumarest’s arm. Steadying him against the desk. “Be careful,” he warned. “Tear those wounds open and you’ll be in real trouble. Can you stand?” He moved into the open as Dumarest nodded.
“Good. This is what we’ll do. I’m taking you back to the infirmary where I want you to sit and wait, sleep if you can, but not to do anything else. I’ll do what I can to find your promoter. The thing is for you to be patient. I’ll come back but it may take some time.”
It took four hours and when the guard returned he was accompanied by a woman.
“Earl Dumarest,” she said, extending her hand. “You can call me Sardia. You know nothing about me but I’ve been hearing a lot about you. From Jarl,” she glanced at the guard. “Jarl Raven. We are old friends.”
Dumarest stared at her hand, baffled as to why she had made the gesture. Then, taking a chance, he followed her example, lifting his arm so as to stretch it, his fingers touching her own,
“You’re in pain,” she said studying his face. “Jarl said you would be. Well, maybe we can do something about that.” She delved into a bag slung over her left shoulder producing a small bottle and a can of spray. Dumarest was naked aside from a loincloth, the normal apparel of any contender, and she had no trouble sending a fine mist over his torso. It chilled then numbed the flesh bringing a welcome relief from the burning torment of his wounds. “Now drink this.” She handed him the bottle then, as he hesitated, snapped. “Learn to trust me! It’s only a sedative and antibiotic. You know what they are, don’t you?”
“Yes, my Lady.”
“Sardia. Call me Sardia.”
“Yes, Sardia.” He drank and handed her back the empty bottle. “Thank you.”
He had drifted into a near-sleep while waiting, an odd state of mind which had spawned strange images and peculiar fancies, turning the others in the infirmary into demons and monsters and moving travesties of humanity. He had been worried and afraid but now that had gone. The spray and medicine had worked their magic.
He said so and she smiled.
“Good. Now we can get down to business. Want to tell him, Jarl?”
“We have cameras covering the arena and I’ve done some checking. You are right. You cut Maroc and drew third blood and so won the bout. Your promoter was attending but made no protest at the verdict given by the referee. It could have been a genuine mistake, the verdict I mean but I doubt it.” The guard fell silent, then said, “Sardia?”
“Jarl works here, Earl, and needs to be cautious,” she explained. “You know how it is — one hand washes the other. It sometimes pays to turn a blind eye. The fact is you have been ripped off. Cheated. Betrayed. Robbed — call it what you like. Your promoter, Bellagon sold you short. You should never have been put against Maroc. You just don’t have the experience. The bout was a set-up.”
“Then I will get the prize.”
Sardia shook her head. “No, Earl, it doesn’t work like that. The verdict has been given and it stands. Only officials have access to the cameras and there are others involved. If you complained you would be ignored. If you kept it up you would be taken care of. Tell him Jarl.”
“You would be beaten up,” he said, curtly. “Killed, even, there are nasty people attached to the arena. Those who have a special interest in what goes on. Gamblers, fixers, promoters like Bellagon. He had a lot of money riding on Maroc and was desperate for him to win. What probably happened is that at the end of the bout you both were trying to score a hit. You won but Maroc will deny it claiming he cut you before you cut him. It’s possible. Or Bellagon could have had one of the handlers slash you to throw doubt on your claim. Anyway, it’s over now.”
Leaving him with nothing.
Dumarest drew in his breath, conscious of his situation. Hurt, probably in the grip of a fever, without a home, money for medicine, food or clothing. Abandoned and stranded on a hostile world.
Sardia guessed what he was thinking. “Things aren’t that bad, Earl. Jarl told me what he saw in the ring and I have a proposition. I have connections with people connected with the arena. If you are willing to accept me as your new promoter then I will take care of you.” Then, smiling, she added: “I warn you it won’t be easy. I’m a hard taskmaster. Do you want time to consider it?”
“No, my Lady.”
“Sardia. I told you to call me Sardia. Do we have an understanding?”
Dumarest nodded, lifting his hand to repeat her earlier gesture, feeling the firm texture of her flesh as she returned his touch.
CHAPTER EIGHT
