Page 41 of Shackled to the Orc

And Maya will be safe.

Other warriors have filed into the arena, some stretching, others pairing off for one-on-one practice. It’s going to be the biggest games Corwinhold has seen since I have been a gladiator, and nearly every member of the stable will be tested. An entire twelve of them will be fighting in a team fight against twelve of Alf’s pitfighters, and I’ll need to introduce them to strategies I used long ago, when I was Montarok, when I led warriors into battle.

I bark out the orders for the dozen of them to line up, choosing twelve opponents, and my mind drifts backs to battles my orcs fought, skirmishes against other tribes testing our mettle for territory, the sudden battle when we nearly ran into twenty of the king’s men who were patrolling into our mountain home, and even that last day of horror, when I ordered the retreat when I should have ordered the all-out attack.

25

MAYA

My stomach grumbles as I yawn awake, alone in bed, the sounds of pitfighters training waking me as the noon light seeps into the room. I haven’t slept that long in ages. My mind was exhausted, and the moment I wake, I have to face the uncomfortable tension. I reach over to the lump in the bed where Montarok’s huge weight indented it, and I run my hand over the sheets, putting my nose into them and smelling him.

I hate waking up alone.

I splash water in my face, chew on some sweetgrass to freshen up, and do my morning exercise and stretches that always center my troubled mind, but I find myself thinking back to my village. My poor mom. She must be terrified for me. Little Thomas, with his leg–who took care of him while I was away?

I take in a deep breath, and change into light, loose-fitting clothes for comfort. I had been preparing myself for an escape attempt with Montarok, and now, I’m dealing with the realization that we’re going to have to wait until we’re sold off to Alf to plan our escape. And what happens after, when we’re chased by–

One thing at a time.

Before I start spiralling, I make my way to the mess hall to get some grub. It’s nearly empty, just a few gladiators resting on the beds, most of them training in the yards. Garvin’s at the long wooden table, slouched over a bowl of stew, and his brown tunic is sweat-stained under the armpits.

I get a bowl from the huge cauldron and grab a piece of crusty bread, then sit across from him. He glances up at me, then back down to his bowl of food as if it is the most interesting thing in the world.

“You worked hard today,” I say, pointing my wooden spoon at his sweat-soaked tunic. “You’re going to have a match?”

He shrugs. “Just another easy one.” Then silence, like I’m talking to a wall.

“Can I talk to you about something?”

He loads up his spoon and takes a huge bite, swallowing quickly. “I’ve got to get back to the ring to train, what is it?” He lifts the bowl to his face, downing it quickly, scraping the bowl, then stands, looking at me expectantly.

It’s strange. He’s always been polite to me. “Nothing, sorry, I just…I don’t know, I’ve got this terrible feeling I can’t quite place. Does anything seem off to you? Or did you hear anything about the fights that seems strange?”

“I feel it too. The little Lord Lucian loves bloodshed, and his daddy will provide on his birthday. Everyone here’s under pressure. That’s what you’re feeling,” he says.

“Okay,” I say, as he leaves, and I slowly move my spoon in a circle around the bowl, forcing myself to eat a little bit at a time. When I’m done, I grab Garvin’s bowl and mine and put it on the cart for the cleaners and go to my small, growing medical bay to make myself a mug of tea to soothe my stomach. I sip on it, watching through the barred window to the training grounds.

Twelve gladiators, humans, are up against another twelve, with Montarok pacing the battle lines and yelling out orders, barking at them to form up into units to protect each other. When he’s satisfied, he steps to the side, yelling at them to begin.

The two lines charge, clashing together until Montarok stops the battle, singling out gladiators who broke the line and tried to fight on their own and dressing them down. Now I know what Garvin meant. There’s going to be a larger scale battle than any of these men have ever prepared for, and the tension is infectious.

As Garvin strides out into the arena, he waves at Montarok. I watch, confused, as Montarok’s leg suddenly pains him, and he limps to meet Garvin in battle. His left arm hangs loosely as the two men circle each other, and Montarok fights slowly, his blade moving stiffly. When he was directing the troops, he was able to hide his wounds, but now his old injuries are coming back with a vengeance.

I rack my brain for the concoctions of herbs I can make to loosen him up, and a poultice I can apply to his left arm that will restore blood flow. I don’t like seeing him like this.

Montarok trips. He stumbles on his hurt leg, and Garvin pounces, darting forward and slicing his blunt blade against Montarok’s neck. I gasp, stepping back from the window, a cold chill rushing through my body. I sit down heavily at the table, running my hands through my hair in anxiety.

I need to move. Sitting here in the pool of stress is only making things worse. I get up, smooth my clothes, and stride to the training arena. “Khan!” I yell, as Garvin helps him up.

He turns and walks to me. “What is it?”

“Your injuries. They’ve gotten worse. Come to the infirmary, I need to take a look at you.”

He exchanges a glance with Garvin, then follows me, limping to my makeshift hospital. I sit him down on the bed, covered in a fresh white sheet and a big blanket, in case of bloody wounds. “You lost your balance. Did your leg give out?”

“I stumbled. Missed my foothold.”

I purse my lips. “Okay, lean back.” I put my hands on his injured leg. “Push forward,” I say, and he pushes me back easily. “Were you weaker than normal?”

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