Page 16 of Shackled to the Orc

The only trace of him is the crumpled fur on the ground, out of place in the neat, spartan room. I pick it up, wondering what dark furred animal it is made of, and make the bed with it, because that was my routine every morning in my home. Here, instead of the sound of the wind through the leaves and the stream flowing, there are grunts and yells, wooden thuds of practice weapons slamming against each other.

I trail my hand over the cold stone walls. How long has the orc lived here? Years? A decade? The serpent tattoo wrapped around his arm marks him as a chief, a warlord of the brutal north tribes. How could that pitmaster keep him here? The orcs of the north would rather die than fight as puppets.

I pull the heavy door open. The horseblanket is gone, and there is a pair of sandals waiting, too big for me, but better than nothing. I slip my feet into them and they slap against the stone ground as I move towards the sounds. If I have any hope of escaping this place, I have to understand why the orc warlord has not. I’ve seen how fast he moves, how powerful he is. Walls and guards couldn’t stop him, unless I am missing crucial pieces of information.

Whatever I’m missing, it’s in that thick skull of his.

I go down the hallway, following the sounds of violence, down a corridor that opens into the light.

There are rows of seats, exposed to the elements, but they stop short of the wall behind us. The old, grizzled gladiator who spoke with Khan last night is leaning back in a chair, his feet up, a big mug of coffee in his hand. A couple of the other seats have men in them, resting. The training ground itself is sunken, with walls ringing it, and I look up. The pitmaster is on a wide balcony attached to his manor, leaning against the railing while a servant brings him a tall glass of an orange drink, watching his property as they train in the morning sun. He’s speaking with a tall, thin man in a tailored white shirt, not old, not young, dressed impeccably yet without any gaudy jewelry or sign of wealth, except that his cloak is affixed by a purple brooch at his neck.

In the pit is violence.

It is a cool, fresh morning, with a chill breeze as the gladiators sweat and train. The two half-orcs, each at least 6’5 and probably weighing over three hundred pounds each, are wrestling each other, their pale green muscles flexed as they fight for the upper hand, their bare feet digging into the sands. Humans are paired off, wooden swords slamming against each other and welting their flesh as they pivot.

Khan limps his way up the line of training men, barking out orders, telling men to get their arms up, stopping them after a swing to demonstrate parries with his own wooden sword.

The two gladiators who brought the cauldron of water to Khan’s room last night are standing at the far end of the arena, clutching long wooden spears that they plant in the ground, as a row of ten men in light leather armor holding a myriad of different wooden weapons take turns charging them, trying to dodge their spears and land blows.

The two men are sweat-soaked in the cold winter sun. They didn’t even have a chance to put on armor before being dragged out into the arena, and the bald one with the stubbly beard is wearing his nightrobe, poorly buttoned up, sticking to his skin, darkened by sweat. His movements are slow as he huffs, his chest heaving as a gladiator charges, dodging his spear, and slams him in the back of his leg with his wooden practice blade, to a sickening snap of wood on flesh. The two men have red marks over their legs and arms from blows.

The gladiator who charged laughs, walking back slowly to the line, fully rested while the trainees are worn down. I’m hypnotized by it. Endless charges, the two men holding on by a thread, no longer trying to hit the aggressors with their spears but only use them to ward away the constant attacks.

Khan’s nose twitches as he demonstrates a strike on a human fighting with a short club and a small round shield, and he turns his head, tracking me. He can pick my scent out from thirty feet away. He looks so enormous compared to the humans, standing far taller than even the half-orcs, this giant behemoth of a warrior looming over men whose lives revolve around violence, who listen to his every word.

Khan is a prisoner, but one who even the pitmaster dares not anger. He is the apex gladiator, who all the others see as their leader.

Even without his tribe, he is still a chieftain. It is inherent to him, and I don’t know if it is some conquering force of will, or a duty in his being.

He looks away from me, limping to the half-orcs. One of them has the other in a chokehold, his bicep flexing around his neck, until his opponent taps out. Khan talks to them in a low voice, then takes the position of the orc who submitted, letting the other put his arm around his neck. He struggles, twisting, and his head slides out with a rotation, slamming his elbow into the other warrior’s chest.

I step up into the stands by the entrance to the gladiators’ quarters and sit down next to the grizzled old gladiator who spoke to Khan the night before. He’s got greasy, stringy hair, a red nose from long decades of drinking, and leathery, tanned skin from long days in the sun.

“You aren’t training with the others?”

He gives me a wry smile. His teeth are surprisingly white. “I know everything there is to know about fighting already,” he says, and takes a gulp of his black brew. I can smell the whisky in it.

“Don’t listen to that old blowhard. He’s not a fighter, he’s an executioner,” says a young gladiator with a buzzed head, leaning against the stairs and drinking water before going back to the training grounds.

The old gladiator snorts. “No respect. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Maya.”

“I’m Garvin.” He extends his hand, which I shake, his grip firm and strong. “You want to know anything about anything, come to me.”

“What did that guy mean, that you’re not a fighter?”

“I did my share of fighting. Lived in the pits since sixteen years old. Fought for Shug’s father, now I fight for Shug. I earned my retirement.” He puts a finger on his right nostril, blowing out snot from the other. “They used to call me the adder. Real quick, I was.”

“And who’s that guy up there, with Shug?” I look upwards towards the estate that rises up on the hill above the arena, a palatial white home that sprawls out. Shug is in deep conversation with the fashionable other man.

“Another pitmaster. Alf. His daddy produces most of the olive oil in the south. Gives his son whatever he wants. But the lad’s got a knack for it. A true promoter. He’s put together some big fights.”

“What’s he doing with Shug?”

“There’s some fights in two days, they’re adjusting the card. See, most bouts are bullshit. Tanner there, the young lad with no respect, called me an executioner. He’s right.” Garvin turns his head, his dark brown eyes searching my reaction. “I go up against tax cheats, blasphemers, people who insult the king, may he reign for eternity.” He laughs, sourly. “You get a choice. Death penalty or the ring. They take their chance, men who have never held a weapon in their life, and they go up against someone like me.”

He pulls out a bronze coin, dancing it over his left knuckles as he stares forward at the fighters. “Most fights are stats padding. It brings drama. People turn up for a fight between two 40-0 undefeated champions, and they bet more, too. Alf up there just bought Grommash, a half-orc, and those two poor souls are going up against him,” he says, cocking his head towards the two men who can barely hold their spears up, their arms shaking as they face down the endless line of gladiators charging them.

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