Chapter Text
But for the coiled leather whip hanging ominously from his belt, the instructor at the head of the group would have given the impression of a typical commoner. Pudgy, balding, and bearded, he was wearing a dust-brown tunic, mud-brown breeches, and boots that seemed to be about to fall apart. Slave master Craol brushed the whip with his pudgy fingers as he gave the instructions for the training exercise to a group of seven waiting gladiators.
The man said, “You all know this drill. I shouldn’t have to repeat the rules. Each of you will have a target attached to the post. Strike the target as many times as possible without killing the target. The longer you keep the target alive, the better your score. Use only your weapon, not your magic.” Finally, a spark of animation entered the man’s eyes and his voice as he added, “Only the slave with the best score avoids a whipping.”
Farrin Graydim stood with the other gladiators, gray eyes trained on the slave master, pretending to listen to the insufferable man. In all the years that he had been enslaved in Sarthe’s gladiator pits, Farrin had never had a worse master. The man was often cruel just for the sake of being cruel.
Farrin tugged on the hem of his dark green, sleeveless tunic. Of all of the training practices, this one was the worst. The idea of torturing people who had no way to fight back made him feel physically ill. In nearly every other training exercise, he would garner the best scores, no matter who he was pitted against. In this exercise, he always finished last because he would only strike once, slitting the throat of his hapless victim. This exercise always guaranteed him a whipping. He sighed and stretched his back at the thought, anticipating the wounds he would bear by evening.
Farrin walked with the others to the practice area, keeping his long strides in check, purposely placing himself in the middle of the line to avoid drawing too much attention. Craol hated Farrin and took every opportunity to make Farrin’s life miserable. Luckily, I have an owner who won’t allow Craol to damage me , Farrin thought. Then his thoughts turned bitter, Though that doesn’t stop Craol from hurting me as much as he wants as long as it doesn’t bother Vovlan’s profits.
For a moment, Farrin allowed himself the distraction of focusing on the sunshine baking his bare arms and his brownish-black hair. Sunshine was a rare commodity. The gladiator cells were like caves with no light whatsoever except from the oil lamps. He breathed deeply of the warm, humid air.
All too soon, the first victim was brought out and attached to the post. She was an old woman, apparently ill. Gareth, the first gladiator in line complained loudly. “That hag is already on death’s doorstep. How am I supposed to keep her alive long enough to score any points?”
Craol unfurled the whip and cracked it across Gareth’s naked arm. “Enough,” Craol shouted. “Strike.”
Gareth said nothing more, but began the exercise. Farrin swallowed down the bile rising in his throat and tried not to be obvious as he avoided watching Gareth drive his pike into the woman over and over again. Farrin could not avoid listening, however, as her screams ripped through the arena. Finally, mercifully, the woman either passed out or died, Farrin was not sure which, and was released from the post and dragged away.
The next victim was a slave girl, a pretty young thing with chestnut curls and dark eyes. Farrin could only imagine what offense she had committed to earn her place on the post. He guessed that she had rejected the attentions of someone powerful. The gladiator meant to attack this girl was armed with a mace--a heavy club with a metal end covered in spikes--and his blows caused blunt trauma to every part of the girl’s body as she screamed, fought, and begged. It took much longer for the girl to succumb to the torture than it had the old woman.
Farrin was the next gladiator in line. The slave masters brought out a little boy. The boy could not have been more than five or six years old. He had matted brown hair, dirty, ragged clothing, and red, blotchy skin. The child shivered and screamed as Craol tied him to the post and grinned evilly at Farrin.
Craol picked up Farrin’s broadsword and offered it to the gladiator. Farrin did not reach for his weapon. Instead he said in a deadly quiet voice, “I will not harm that child.”
Craol slammed a fist into Farrin’s jaw, sending pain radiating through his head and neck. The master demanded, “Take your sword.”
Farrin straightened, resisted the urge to rub his jaw, and wrapped his hand around the hilt of the sword, staring down Craol. He was tempted to plunge his weapon into the expansive gut of the man standing before him; he knew, however, that if he did, the pitmaster would activate the magical anklet Farrin wore, poisoning him instantly.
Again, the visions of his escape flitted through Farrin’s head. He had thought it through so many times. If only he could pry off the anklet, he could get away, but he had tried everything he could think of to rid himself of the charmed restraint without success. He sighed. He shook off the momentary daydream and returned his attention to reality.
Farrin stabbed his sword into the ground and looked at Craol. Craol slashed the whip at Farrin's arm, leaving an angry red welt on the skin, but Farrin ignored the strike, though he wanted to rub away the sting, and simply continued to stare. The slave master growled, “You either destroy the target or take his place on the post.” The man’s eyes gleamed as though he were thrilled with the prospect.
When Farrin still would not cooperate, Craol reclaimed the sword and ordered that the child be removed. Yanking Farrin’s arms behind the post, the master snapped charmed manacles on Farrin’s wrists. Farrin stood straight, motionless, and silent, but his insides quivered. I’m going to die today, he thought.
The gladiator that lined up before him was Marcus, his friend, the man he trained with every morning. The men had been lucky enough never to have faced each other in the arena, but today their luck ran out. Marcus’ weapon was a harpoon, with a sharp point and barbs that lodged in flesh and would not release. When the bearer pulled the weapon back out of the victim, the harpoon would tear the flesh and organs of the victim to pieces. Farrin wanted to close his eyes, but he refused. Farrin looked Marcus in the eye and watched as Marcus tried to decide what to do.
Craol’s face screwed up in displeasure, he readied his whip, and he screamed, “Strike!”
Finally, Marcus threw the harpoon, the weapon striking and lodging in the skin and muscle of Farrin’s right calf. The pain spread like fire through Farrin’s leg, making him want to howl, but he stubbornly refused to let the sound escape.
Just as Marcus was about to pull the harpoon out of Farrin’s leg, the pitmaster came barreling into the arena. He grabbed Craol by the tunic and screamed, “What do you think you are doing? You dare put the champion--and Vovlan’s favorite--on the post? Vovlan will have us all thrown to the wild animals for destroying his revenue. Release Farrin NOW!”
The slave master sniveled, “But he wouldn’t participate in the exercise.”
The pitmaster used his hold on Craol’s tunic to shove him backward. “Then beat him, don’t kill him. Idiot! Now, get him to the healer for that leg.”
Farrin nearly sagged in relief, but would not give Craol the satisfaction of such a display.
The sniveling master said, “But what about the beating?”
The pitmaster snarled, “If you don’t get that wound repaired, he’s going to die. Do you want to be the one who explains that to Vovlan?”
With that, the slave master ducked his head and released Farrin from the manacles. “Marcus, get Farrin to the healer,” the pitmaster commanded.
Marcus had not pulled the harpoon away. It was still lodged in Farrin’s leg. Marcus asked him quietly, “Can you hold on to the harpoon? It’s your best chance of keeping that leg intact.”
Farrin grabbed the other end of the weapon and held it, pain shooting through his leg as his awkward position tugged upward on the end of the harpoon, jolting it with each movement. It hurt like being stabbed with a hot poker every time he stepped, but with Marcus’ help, Farrin started toward the infirmary.
Craol caught Farrin by the tunic as the pitmaster turned away and said, “We’re far from done, Slave.”
Farrin ignored him and hobbled out of the arena, but he knew he was going to pay dearly for his defiance.