Page 14 of Shackled to the Orc
I don’t have the grogginess I’ve grappled with for the last two months, and the scent of her permeates the room, this feminine, natural fragrance that made my mind swirl when I first tasted just a hint of it as my prison wagon carted past her hiding spot. It’s good to smell her while she is still asleep, without the tints of grief and panic that prickle my nose.
My knee is throbbing from the stone that served as my bed, and I pull myself up silently, suppressing the groan of pain as cartilage grates. I’m getting soft. I’ve slept in far worse, grottos that barely stop the piercing north winds, pitching shelters in the divots of tree trunks and lying on frosty ground. I look over at Maya. The sheets are tangled around her, one of her feet outstretched, her toes looking so tiny and vulnerable. So small, so soft, yet with such strength, and such knowledge.
Last night…last night was strange. It was the first time I felt something normal in eight years, the first time I let my guard down, speaking, acting like the old me, before I failed the men who depended on me.
Before I led them to their deaths, and my own, promised in the ring.
My lips draw back as I remember the biting winds, the blizzard that my men followed me into blindly, the endless stretch of frozen days. I should have stood and fought. He would have had a chance. Brond, sixteen, on his first hunting trip, who looked up to me, who had begged to come. I should have told him no.
The rage fills me, the hatred of myself. They should have lived. I could have charged the king’s soldiers, distracted them, while the dozen of my hunting party escaped. I could have rallied my troops to a defense and fought them back. I could have done a thousand different things, and each night, I revisit that time, thinking of everything else I could have done…
But not last night. Last night, I slept peacefully, the scent of her in my nostrils, calming me. What did she put in my bath? Some sedative? Some calming agent? She said it was just minerals, but I should not trust her. I know nothing about her.
I move silently, as though I am stalking a deer, undressing, taking a fresh loincloth from the chest and wrapping it around me. It offers the most freedom of movement. Then I slip out, closing the door softly behind me, and walk down the hallway, past Garvin’s private room, past the two half-orcs' domains, and to the general dormitories, which serves as a drinking hall and feasting room, as well as gambling and bartering. Human gladiators are allowed out in the city on rare occasions, but any with a drop of orc-blood is only allowed in during fight days.
I enter the dormitory and take a glance over at the two newcomers, in the bunks next to the latrine. One of them has taken his share of fists or boots to the head, missing teeth, while the other is beefy and thick for a human. Thick is good. You don’t get armor as a newcomer to the ring, but a layer of fat can glance a blow. They were picked up at the early auctions, bartered for the price of cows, and few newcomers make it through their first fights.
“You! You!” I roar, and fighters groan, hungover from the festivities, clutching their ringing heads, but they know I am not talking to them, because they were woken up this way, some a year ago, some five.
The two newcomers drank their share last night. It’s a way to numb the fear. “Out of bed! Attention!”
The one with the stubbly beard trips over his thin bedsheet, and falls, but jumps up nimbly, standing as tall as he can. He is in a sleeping tunic, buttoned poorly, but the other fell asleep in his vestment. They are pale faced, men of about twenty, and they chose the pits over execution or maiming.
They’ll get both, if they show up in this condition.
“Training grounds. Now.”
They freeze up. Peter is getting out of bed, his cheeks sallow and sweaty from the drink. “You heard Khan! Get your sorry asses into the ring!” A few months ago, it was Peter being dragged out of bed before dawn, and I trained him until his muscles were jelly, until he collapsed in exhaustion, then I put my foot on his throat, and I told him if he didn’t get up I would crush his windpipe.
He got up. He continued training, barely able to move his arms, and though he lost his first fight against the 3-1 upcoming human branded asTrooper, a deserter from the army who chose the pits over death, he put up a strong enough resistance that the crowd cheered for him, prompting his life to be spared for another bout.
They hesitate for a moment, then the quicker of the two, missing teeth, makes a beeline for the door, the other tripping up behind him, averting his gaze from me.
I killed men like him. Men who had no chance. When a pitmaster has a promising prizefighter like me, you go up against green fighters with no record, their lives worth nothing more than a digit in your scorecard. My first fight, I knocked down three humans half my size, slaying two, the third begging for his life. I knew what I had to do. I waited, until the VIP of the night, the arena master, lowered his thumb.
It was an act of mercy. Shug told me before the fight to end them quickly. If a gladiator refuses the coup de gras, you both get punished, and no one escapes that single digit pointing downward with their life. My blade is a faster end than being thrown to hungry dogs, the braying crowd betting on how long they last.
“You fighting next bout?” I ask Peter.
He nods. “Yep. Against a green. Some brawler who accidentally killed someone important in a street fight.” He goes to the latrine, washing his face in the sink.
“Don’t underestimate him. Men like that have been fighting since they could form a fist.”
“I won’t. I won’t showboat. I’ll end him quick as I can.”
“Good.” I leave the dormitories, and Peter runs to catch up. I told him that he could rest today, but he’s eager to continue his training, no longer the greenest gladiator in the stable.
I open the door to the training armory. There is light, leather armor, poorly maintained, and there wasn’t much to maintain in the first place. “Who are the greens up against?”
Peter looks away. “Both of them, up against Grommash.”
I scowl. I took Grommash’s eye, and it only made him meaner. I should have driven my blade deeper and into his brain. He has no honor, no mercy. He’s made a trademark for himself not just as a skilled fighter, but also for his coup de gras.
He swings his axe in wide circles, then drives it directly in the middle of his fallen foe’s chest.
Only the first time, he misses on purpose, letting his blade slam into the sand or take chunks off his victim’s side. He savors their fear, and if they are lucky, his second strike is true.
“A real butcher. Spears,” I order.
