The Sword Unbroken - SAMPLE CHAPTERS

Chapter Nine: Trickery and Servitude

Imalroc rose with the sun. He pushed aside the layer of saddle blankets and ignored the blast of chilled morning air. Morning after morning, season after season, he had forced himself from the meager warmth and safety of his bed. Most days he was grim as the morning light itself, but today was different. He stood up and folded the saddlebags into a pile at the foot of the mattress. With one hand, he touched the thin edge of the piece of paper he had tucked into the lining of his shirt. It was still there, slightly bent, and warm from its hiding place.

Master Toriem had given him the little sheet of brown paper the night before, after he and Lady Toriem had both signed their names and oaths beneath the scribbled words that promised Imalroc his freedom in return for their escape from Kirinoll. He knew that it didn't really mean much, it was just a scrap of paper after all, but it still made him giddy every time he touched it.

He paced the cellar, rubbed his palms together against the cold, and waited for the scuffing of boots on the cobblestones outside the door. When it finally came, he wheeled toward the entrance and watched the daylight spill in, framing the lean form of the handler.

Master Toriem paused in the doorway, his green eyes locked with Imalroc's. The muscles in Imalroc's calves tensed on instinct and he spread his feet, only half conscious of the defensive adjustment. The handler mirrored Imalroc's stiff tension. Each of his footsteps landed with just a little too much precision. He carried the worthless sword that he had given Imalroc at Iffroa.

Master Toriem stopped a few stride lengths out of his reach, and rolled his shoulders like he was trying to get rid of shiver. "So...ready to train?"

"I want to make a few things clear to you first," Imalroc said. The words rushed out of him, too quick and too aggressive to pass for a slave speaking to a master. Any other handler, and he'd be peeling himself off the cellar floor right now.

A dangerous calm settled over Master Toriem's face, and Imalroc had a sudden, vivid flash of the handler's hand smashing into his cheekbone and sending him sprawling backwards. He curled lower, prepared to defend himself.

"Well? What do you want to say?" Master Toriem prompted, and Imalroc licked his dry lips. The words were heavy on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to say them, but it took more nerve than he could admit to needing.

"Do you know anything about handling a battleboxer?" Imalroc asked. It was about time they got this out in the open. He'd been damn sure the handler was just waiting to spring a ferocious beating on him ever since he arrived on the estate grounds, but a tendril of hope had grown somewhere in the back of his mind. Maybe his young master just didn't know what the fuck to do with him. The possibility was almost too wonderful to accept.

Master Toriem crossed his arms. "No, I suppose I don't."

Imalroc drew himself up to his full height and leveled his gaze with his so-called handler. "Then don't try to handle me. I might behave in front of people, but I'm not putting on an act when there's no audience."

"Fine."

"If you try to break me...if you lie and cheat and try to turn me into a slave...then I will kill you," Imalroc said quietly.

He could feel his own threat ringing against his ears in the silence that followed. The Duke of Wester would have beheaded him for speaking that truth to his face.

Master Toriem did not back away or break Imalroc's gaze. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that," he answered finally.

"I want to know your plans for any potential fights."

"You'll have to talk to Etiana. We don't know where we're going to fight you anyway, with your record as it stands. She was planning on trying the smaller boxes on the East Outer Ring."