Free The Warrior (The Rebellion) by Jordan Magera Page B

nodded, "Orane is going to be trouble."
     
    "Aye, I've seen him fight before." Frank ran a hand through his hair, obviously not focused on the conversation. "He has more talent than any fighter I've ever seen. In fact, now that I think of it, I believe he is owned by Lord Barkley."
     
    Barst nodded again, and then leaned his head forward on the table. It was going to be harder than he had previously thought. Orane would make sure of that. I wonder what he fights for. The thought kept him distracted for a few minutes.
     
    A low grumble in his stomach awakened Barst from his contemplations, and he pushed his chair away from the table. Frank was staring at his feet in thought, so Barst began to walk to the food counter alone.
     
    When he passed the board the workers had nailed up earlier, Barst stopped with surprise to see his name mounted at the top. Below it were other names of people from his team. After a moment he realized what it was. It was a scoreboard. Barst eyes flew to his name and, half cringing in fear at what he might see, he looked at the column marked “kills.”
     
    Fifteen.
     
    Barst felt like he had taken a blow. He stepped back and tried to get air into his lungs. His mind was reeling. He had slaughtered fifteen men. Men who may have had families. Men who may have been forced into the arena. Men who had hope and a purpose.
     
    He felt filthy with guilt. All he had said to Frank now left him. He had stolen fifteen men's right to live. He had never killed anywhere close to that number in the past. How much more of this could he take? Surely he would die of guilt and pain. What he had done would always be ingrained into his conscious.
     
    Barst forced himself into the lunch line, but it all seemed a haze. The thought of fifteen dead bodies haunted his thoughts. Food was handed to him, yet he didn’t even notice. He moved back to the table and started eating when the realization came to him. He was going to cry. He stood up and briskly walked to the lavatory, head hung low.

 
     
     
     
    C H A P T E R 17
     
     
     
     
     
    Meeting Her at Last
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Despite the well-done interior, the suiting room had begun to develop a stench. The fighters’ armor had lain in there for the day and had begun to release terrible fumes that filled the whole team's nostrils. Barst, ignoring the fetid stench, tightened his belt and began to tuck a few knifes in various places.
     
    He had regained his calm after losing it earlier. He had pounded on the walls of the small lavatory and wailed with pain and guilt. His tears had made a river down his cheek, taking shortcuts across his scars. His body throbbed from being thrown against the walls in shame.
     
    Barst had only wept once like that before, and that was after his parents’ death. He could still see the blood from his self-inflicted wounds seep through the snow. His body had ached for days.
     
    Barst shook those memories out of his mind and focused on the task ahead. He remembered his purpose and fixed it in his mind. He could feel determination fill him from the far corners of his body, and he began to steel himself for the last fight. His focus seemed to narrow his vision, and he ignored all others around him.
     
    A bugle went off, and Barst headed out toward the arena, a good five paces ahead of Rudy. When they stepped out into the arena, Barst resisted the urge to shield his eyes from the sudden sun, and instead searched for Orane.
     
    He was easy to spot. Standing away from the rest of the team, his weapon lodged in the dirt, he smiled smugly at Barst with an air of superiority. Barst's already boiling blood came to a steam, and he positioned himself directly facing Orane. The crowd roared their approval, but Barst flushed it out, focusing only on his enemy.
     
    Stealthily as he could, Barst unfastened the knife around his belt and held it concealed against his arm. With his other hand, Barst adjusted his sword on