Read Online The Prince of Shadow by Curt Benjamin - Free Book Online Page B

prayers; soon he was passing effortlessly through the exercises, wrapped in the warmth of Adar’s smile.
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    At the end of his first month at the compound, and just as Llesho was beginning to think that he would remain a slave to the mop forever, Den pulled him aside after prayer forms.
    â€œYou are doing well,” he said, and Llesho gave him a little bow, receiving the compliment with humility.
    â€œAre you settling into the barracks well?”
    â€œYes, sir, Master Den.” Llesho had learned the proper form of address for his teacher, and he used it now, waiting for the master to reveal his purpose. He knew that he showed too much of his relief to be out from under the overseer’s eye, and perhaps too much of his impatience as well, because Master Den chuckled at him.
    â€œAnd I suppose you are wondering how prayer forms and mops will make you a gladiator.”
    â€œYes, Master Den.” He met his teacher’s eyes with a dare in his own.
    â€œShut that down right now, boy, unless you want to spend the rest of your days in Markko’s clutches.” Master Den managed to frown at him without ever changing expression, which Llesho didn’t understand, except that he dropped his own eyes, and scuffed his feet in the sawdust with all of the confusion he really felt.
    The washerman studied him for a moment before releasing a sigh. “Very well,” he said, answering the silent demand. “After your work detail, you may join the novices at hand-to-hand combat training. Ask Bixei the way.”
    Master Den knew that Bixei hated the newcomer, and he challenged Llesho with a crinkle of humor in his eye. “Be nice to your enemy, this time,” that look seemed to say, “or stay a slave to the mop forever.”
    Llesho asked. Bixei wasn’t happy, and Llesho wondered if it was another trick when the golden boy led him away from the large central practice yard where the experienced gladiators went about their training. He was more certain of it than ever when they entered the laundry, but Bixei kept going, out the back and through the drying yards to a corner where the other novices waited for them.
    Radimus, a member of Llesho’s bachelor group, nodded a greeting. “Pei,” he said by way of introducing the fourth novice, “Used to be a drover, till his master saw him fight in a barracks match.”
    Up close, Pei was terrifying, almost as big as Master Den, but with a harder, scarred body. Llesho had never seen a barracks match—the pearl divers settled their arguments in other ways, and Master Markko would skin a man who took a gladiator out of competition for a personal argument. He’d heard the gossip, though, and knew that some lords wagered on the death matches of their own slaves. The former drover returned his curious wonder with a baleful glance that gave neither threat nor quarter—Llesho figured that was all the “hello” he was going to get.
    Though new to gladiatorial combat, Radimus and Pei were both fully grown and Master Den paired them for practice, which left Bixei to spar with Llesho. As he picked himself up from the dirt for what seemed like the thousandth time that afternoon, Llesho gave a prayer of gratitude that no one but his small band of beginners could see his clumsiness or his repeated defeats at the hands of his rival.
    Den never scolded him for his ungainly efforts, but repeated his instructions patiently. He taught efficiency over drama, elegance in simplicity, took Llesho’s hand and positioned it just so, nudged his knee into the proper stance, and nodded approval when he had it right. Then he demonstrated how the clean, deadly moves could be decorated to impress the arena crowds while inflicting little damage to his opponent. Llesho quickly realized that, while Bixei seemed to grasp the underlying deadly purpose of the training, the point of not doing damage to his opponent never seemed to