Page 39 of Rise of a Fallen Man

I was certain the surgery had been performed by a warlock. Few witches had the skill to do this, intentionally so. The healing witches viewed operating on male “private parts” as something below their status.

“He gave me some powder for the pain.” Regit reached for a silver tin on the side table. “But I’ve almost used it all.”

Just a thin layer of pink powder covered the bottom of the tin. Even if the tin was full, however, a simple pain medication wasn’t enough. Regis needed a healing ointment for the stitches and a special tea with a spell of magic to help his body absorb the liquid onyx.

The warlock who did this to Regit must be a hack, like so many of them were. The surgery was complex and required skills that warlocks often lacked.

Witches enjoyed the advantage of a far more thorough education, the apprenticeships with the best healers of the country, and the support of many affluent benefactors.

Warlocks studied the healing arts on their own. They often practiced in secret out of fear of being arrested and prosecuted for criminal ignorance in the profession they weren’t allowed to study for in the first place.

“Why did you let a warlock touch you?” I scolded. “Why did you need to have it done? You’re a gladiator, not a whore from a fun house.”

Regit exhaled a humorless laugh through a grimace of pain.

“Do you think only whores earn their living with their cocks?”

“You’re a gladiator, Regit. You earn your living in the arena. Your occupation is far more honorable than that of a whore.” I knew that for a fact because I’d done both.

“Honorable, all right,” Regit scoffed. “For as long as I can leap like an elf to the delight of the audience, I’m fine. But what about when I can’t do that anymore?” He peered at me. “How old do you think I am, Raeb?”

Regit was tall but lean and agile. His body was wired with ropy muscles. In the arena, he wore a pair of iridescent wings and was so light on his feet when leaping over the obstacles, it often looked like he indeed was flying over them.

“Umm, you’re twenty-three? Twenty-four maybe?” I ventured a guess, scratching my beard.

He relaxed in the pillows with a sigh.

“Good. That’s what you say when anyone asks. Deal?” He waited for my nod before continuing. “But I’m actually turning thirty this year. Thirty,” he moaned as if that number hurt him even more than the pain from the surgery. “I found a gray hair last week. Already. Can you believe it?” He touched his hair that was neatly woven into the slim, long cords that reached his waist.

“I’m thirty-two,” I admitted, trying to console him.

“And you look it. No offense.”

“None taken.” I shrugged.

Regit shook his head with a somber expression. “Your ragged charm and recent success may carry you through for a while. But at our age, we can’t count on being a gladiator that much longer.The crowd feeds on our youth. The arena swallows us young, devours our health, and spits us out old and injured within just a few years. If you don’t die, you’ll get out of here with enough aches and pains to last for the rest of your life, however long or short that may be. And then what?”

“The crown pays a pension to the retired gladiators.”

“That it does. But the money is only enough to rent a room in the city or a small house in the country.” Distaste etched on his handsome face. “I’m not a country boy. I need the excitement of the city, Raeb. But I don’t want just a plain boring room in a boarding house somewhere. Look at all I have now.” He gestured at the lavish furnishings of his bedroom—the silk sheets on his enormous poster bed, the priceless rug on the floor, and the glistening pile of jewelry on a silver tray on his night table. “How can you give it all up after getting a taste? I want to keep sleeping in silk and eating the best food out there. I want to have servants to look after me when I’m old. I’ll need more than the crown will pay, and more comes from women. I need benefactors to sponsor the lifestyle I’m accustomed to. But rich women prefer young boys with wrinkle-free skin and energy in spades. To stay in their favor when I’m past my prime, I must offer them something they’ll be willing to keep paying me for.”

I squinted, making a guess. “Your cock?”

He nodded.

“A better cock than most have. The best that money can buy.”

“So, you let a hack warlock cut you up, stuff you with fish bladders, and pump you with liquid onyx, all for women’s pleasure?”

“Exactly.”

I didn’t judge. I’d done the same years ago. My reason for that had been even simpler than Regit’s. I didn’t care for silk sheets or jewels, I’d just tried not to go hungry and hopefully save a coin or two for a rainy day. Men with those bodilymodifications tended to earn more in the fun house. It seemed to apply to the gladiators too.

Regit put the covers back over his mangled member and growled, throwing his arm over his eyes.

“I’ll need more of that pink shit,” he squeezed through his clenched teeth.

“You’ll need more than the pain powder if you want to recover fast enough to even walk before the next games. Without the proper aftercare, I’m afraid all the magic of the queendom won’t make you well enough to do your usual act anytime soon.”

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