Page 2 of Shackled to the Orc

Gullet, they call him. Undefeated. His huge, distended belly grew with each killing, devouring them before the baying crowd. If he got me on my back, he would have ripped my stomach open with his fangs and feasted on me alive.

I pant in exhaustion, but my blade stays steady as I meet his stare, and we are united, two pitfighters who but for one slip in the blood-drenched sands or an unlucky blow could have had our fates reversed.

The battle may have been a half-hour, fighting until exhaustion, but it passed in an instant. Feinting, striking, wearing down the beast, never letting him get his hands on me. Then it was done. I dug my blade into his heel, pivoting, and drove it in his lungs when he turned to face me.

Above us, the thick smog of the city is held at bay by the transparent, shimmering dome that comes out when there is a guest of honor at the games. The city of Corwinhold is a blight on nature, and in its arena, the masses pack in to watch the blood sports that distract them from their existence in the factories that supply the capital with weapons and machinery.

Now that the battle is won, I feel every wound. The dull ache of my tortured muscles, the searing fire in my arm where he landed a hard blow of his hatchet, the grinding of my right knee where I was smashed by a mace four years ago that makes each step wear my bones together. The constant headache makes my head swim, still nearly as painful as when my jaw was broken two months ago when I was put up against three half-orcs with clubs.

Around me rise the stone walls of the arena, and at the seat of honor is the snot-nosed little lord, Corwin’s heir Lucian, bug-eyed as he leans in. He has never tasted fear.

He has only meted it out.

Nineteen, and yet still a foolish boy, he raises his hand. The crowd quiets, every eye on his thumb as he raises his arm high. Lucian savors the moment, feeling as a God as he decides on mercy or cold death. My felled opponent tries to push himself up, but his ruined arm gives out, and he slumps back against the sand, mouth open and panting, his red tongue lolling out obscenely.

Lucian’s thumb points downward.

I drive my blade into my foe’s heart, and pull back, stepping away as the fountain of crimson blood spurts. The crowd screams with bloodlust.

It is done.

I do not raise my arms in victory. I do not bow to the little lord. I turn, limping out of the arena and into the fighters’ tunnel, where I slam my blade hilt first into the weapons keeper’s hands. The hallway is lit by weak, pulsing light, and as I move further into the tunnel, the familiar groans and screams of pain from the infirmary greet me. I pass by the butchery, not wanting to see if Peter is dead, catching a glance from the side of my vision of doctors and nurses in blood-stained aprons trying to repair the damage to wounded fighters as they beg for drink or stillroot to ease their pain.

My arm is throbbing, a new wound, the hatchet thunking into my bicep and nearly shearing it to the bone, but I stride past the bay without stopping as my wound closes on its own, the skin knitting together.

I do not numb my pain. It is a reminder that I am alive, while those who trusted me are not.

I turn the corner into our waiting room, nothing but two wooden benches facing each other in front of the iron bars of the door leading to the transport hub. They keep us far apart from rival gladiators, because if we brawl when no one is watching, the wounds and bloodshed earn them nothing. The pitmaster owns our lives, and since I started fighting for him eight years ago, his home has grown, sprawling out.

Robert, the red-bearded guard who I could snap in half, holds the cuffs almost apologetically as I take my place on the wooden bench, between my fellow fighters who have left space for me. They nod to me in respect. Six of us were brought to the Corwinhold for the games, and four remain, three humans and a half-orc. Standing, the other half-orc would only be a half-foot shorter than me, but he has his head bowed over, the chains connecting the collar we both wear to his hands and feet. No one speaks. We’re always silent after the fights, each recounting the battle in our minds, each step, each blow.

I am glad that Peter survived his fourth bout in the ring. He gives me a weak smile of appreciation but doesn’t say a word, exhausted, his tunic wet and clinging to him from the sweat of his fights. He was nabbed for stealing two months ago and chose the pits over losing his hand. The betting odds gave him a chance in fifteen to survive his first bout. I evened those odds, getting him to trade the unwieldy sword for a dirk, and showing him where to stick it to end a life.

Robert cuffs my wrists as loosely as he can get away with, then my legs, threading the chain into them and to my neck, so I can only hobble, as per the King’s decrees. Any fighter with a drop of orc’s blood must be restrained during transport. The chain jerks the cuffs against my hurt arm, and I suppress a groan of pain.

It took four men to sedate me after my first battle, the bloodlust still in me. Now I sit still, waiting. There will be another battle, another enemy, another chance to fulfill my promise to myself.

“Well? Why aren’t we going to the fucking wagon?” grumbles Garvin, cocking his head towards the iron bars that lead into the transport hub. Over half his life, he has fought in the pits. At forty-four, he is the only gladiator of the stable older than me. He was once a fierce fighter, but now he is put up against untested newcomers. It might as well be an execution. He is looking forward to his jug of mead and plate of roast chicken he gets after a fight.

Horses whinny and trot nervously as five men approach our holding cell from the transport hub. Shug, flanked by his eternal guards, men half my size with swords at their belts, one constantly holding a crossbow, cocked and ready. I watched an enraged gladiator try to get to the pitmaster, and he got a bolt through the heart. The powerful gladiator’s limbs turned to jelly as his spine was severed and he was dropped from a distance, all his strength useless, never getting within ten feet of Shug.

Shug stops six feet from the bars. He’s smart. He never gets within arm’s reach of me, not even when I’m shackled up so tight I can barely hobble. He’s seen me rip people’s arms off. Shug is short, even for a human, with a big belly, clad in a brown tunic. He doesn’t show off his wealth with baubles like the other pitmasters.

“Khan. You did well today.” His three guards spread out around him, forming a wall.

I grunt in response.

“I’ve got a prize for you.”

“No prize.” He gives the other gladiators treats for winning, as if throwing bones to a dog. Bottles of whisky and mead, prime cuts of meat, new weapons and armor to show off in the fighting arena.

I’ve used the same pitted steel blade for the last eight years.

“You’re going to like this. You’re not going back to the estate. We’re going on a trip.”

My lips curl back, showing my fangs. I used to roam mountains, taking my men on hunting trips in the icy tundras, a life of fresh air and bathing in icy streams, following the herds. Since my capture, I have been nowhere but the pitmaster’s estate and the fighting ring.

I swore that for my failure as chieftain my only escape would be when someone stronger, faster, better, or luckier than me ended it all. Each long year in the ring, I slow, injury upon injury racking up. I’m getting old. Most pitfighters are in their twenties. I’m not as fast as I used to be, and Gullet nearly ended me. It was his hatchet getting lodged into my arm that let me slice his leg, slowing him, and though it took another twenty minutes, it was already over. I circled him endlessly, one blow after another, until a final cut to his ankle and his last attempt to strike gave me an opening.

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