The Sword Unbroken - SAMPLE CHAPTERS

Chapter Five: In the House of Iffroa

Imalroc awoke to a creak from the cellar door. His eyes popped open, tension crackling in his shoulders and back. He resisted the urge to flip over and remained facing the wall, his knees curled protectively toward his chest in a useless effort to preserve warmth. Footsteps crossed the cellar floor toward his bed.

"Imalroc," Master Toriem's voice came from above him, and he felt the jolt of a boot kicking his lumpy mattress. "Time to wake up."

He shifted slowly, turning onto his back and scrubbing at his eyelids in an exaggerated display of sleepiness. A theatrical yawn and accompanying stretch earned him a snort from the handler. Imalroc looked past Master Toriem and eyed the early morning light, grey and unforgiving, seeping in through the partially opened cellar. His handler did not normally come in so early.

Master Toriem had no food, but over one arm he had draped the thick piece of wool that they used as a blindfold whenever Imalroc was taken out of the cellar. Imalroc took a steadying breath. It had been two days since he had last stood in sunlight.

"Stay seated. For today I'm going to put you into the cage with minimal restraints, but you make a single error and I will wrap you in chains and drag you behind the cart. Understood?"

"Yes, Master," Imalroc murmured. Master Toriem had a habit of using some graphic threats, but had Imalroc had yet to actually see the handler follow through on one. Toriem was saving it up, no doubt. Keeping him in suspense. He shifted restlessly while the blindfold was tied in place.

Once he was in the cage with his hands fastened to the bars by a loop of rope, they were on their way. The blindfold began to slip as the cage bounced over increasingly uneven cobblestones. They were moving into the East Outer Ring, home of the elite battleboxes.

Imalroc slumped back against the bars of the cage and watched with hooded eyes as an all-too-familiar building swung into view. It was an imposing structure; an enormous, whitewashed cube built several stories above the buildings around it. He was no stranger to this place. He had fought one of his first real fights for Duke Wester here. The memory made him grimace.

The white exterior walls of the battlebox arena were inlaid with decorative slats of dark wood that shone with oiled luster. A graceful arch curved over a pair of pale blue doors, big enough to allow three horse-drawn carts to pass through abreast of each other. Above the entry arch a sign, dulled by age, bore an old world slogan about the art of battleboxing. Something to do with joy and honor, if Imalroc remembered correctly. They really ought to find something more appropriate to the sport. Like "shit and more shit."

Imalroc watched Master Toriem leap down from the driver's perch. The handler tugged one of the tassels that hung to either side of the entrance. A faint gong-like noise sounded somewhere within the building, and then a window opened above.

"Go 'round to the deliveries gate!" a reedy voice called sharply, accompanied by a withered hand waving in the direction the speaker wanted them to go. Imalroc was almost sure he knew who was speaking.

"We have business with Ori Canning," Master Toriem began, "And wish to—"

"Whatever it is you wish is of no consequence. Go around to the other gate! Damned be all you young pricks, spitting in the face of hallowed traditions!" the voice shrilled.

Imalroc leaned back as far as the rope binding his wrists would allow and smiled to himself. Warwick still ran Iffroa like it was his private kingdom.

"Sorry," the handler muttered. Imalroc watched Master Toriem turn back toward the cart, his face chagrined. Anyone who had spent some time around a battlebox as storied as Iffroa would have known that the main doors were never opened unless a fight was on. Superstitions were treated solemnly in a place like this. Master Toriem was in for a bit of an education.