Leyn rushed to Chenaya’s side and returned her pouch of gold. He had thrown aside the sentry’s helm or lost it in the conflict. His curly blond hair shone with the glow of the fires that still burned. “Mistress,” he said softly, “we lost two of our own.” He told her the names.
Chenaya drew a deep breath. “Fire or sword?” she asked.
Leyn turned his gaze away. “One to each.”
She winced, full of grief for the one who had burned. It was no way for a warrior to die. “If you can, get the bodies from Walegrin. We’ll give funeral rites ourselves at Land’s End and scatter their ashes on the Red Foal.”
Leyn moved away to carry out her order. Alone for a moment, Chenaya fought back tears of anger. All of her gladiators were hand-picked men, all completely loyal to her, and she had led two of them to their deaths. Death itself was nothing new to her, but this responsibility for other men’s lives was. Suddenly, she found it a heavy yoke to bear.
She gazed up at the sky, wishing Sabellia would come to brighten up her world.
There were but twelve links on her chain now-no, only ten. But soon there would be a hundred. One hundred bonds to bind her.
She went back to Zip’s unconscious form. Already, a bruise had appeared where her pommel had struck him. She knelt and felt for a heartbeat, fearing she had hit too hard.
“Is he alive?”
She looked up at Walegrin. The garrison commander was smeared with blood, though apparently none of it was his own. He was a grisly sight. The color and smell of it had never bothered her before, but this time she turned her gaze away.