Page 13 of Her Manticore Master
5
RONAN
Guards drag me from my cell before dawn, my chains scraping against stone with each stumbling step. My ribs still ache from the troll fight three days ago, but Valdris grows impatient for fresh entertainment.
"Move it, beast," Korven snarls, jabbing me with his spear tip. "The crowd's already gathering."
"Eager for blood today?" I ask, rolling my shoulders to work out the stiffness.
"Always." Thane grins nastily. "Though today should be interesting. Your opponent's got quite the reputation."
They shove me into the preparation chamber where a single blade waits on the scarred wooden table. Not my twin swords—those were lost in Oshta—but a decent enough weapon. The steel feels cold and familiar in my palm as I test its weight.
"Generous of your master," I observe, making practice swings despite the chains still binding my ankles.
"Don't get attached," Korven warns. "You'll be giving it back soon enough."
The key turns in my shackles with a satisfying click. For the very first time in days, my wrists are free. I roll them slowly, working feeling back into numbed fingers.
"Remember the rules, beast," Thane says, though we all know there are no rules in the arena save one: survive. "Fight well, and maybe you'll see another sunrise."
"How thoughtful."
As I'm led toward the arena, I consider scaling the pit master's box to kill Valdris, despite the risk. The fantasy of vengeance burns, but I dismiss it, knowing his guards would kill me and my brothers would remain lost. Others have surely failed such attempts. I need a smarter way, a death that means something. The arena gates open, and the crowd's roar greets me. I step into the ring, fueled by their hatred.
"Citizens of Vhoig!" the announcer's voice booms loudly across the arena. "Today we have a special treat! Our manticore warrior faces Grokthar the Skull-Cleaver!"
The opposite gates open with mechanical precision, revealing my opponent. The orc stands nearly eight feet tall, his green hide scarred by countless battles. Twin curved blades gleam in his massive fists, and his tusks are filed to razor points. This is no beast driven by hunger—this is a thinking killer who's survived long enough to earn a name.
"Grokthar! Grokthar!" The crowd takes up the chant, clearly favoring the veteran over the newcomer.
The orc grins, revealing those sharpened tusks. "Fresh meat," he rumbles in accented Common. "Been too long since I killed manticore."
"First time for everything," I reply, settling into a fighting stance.
"You talk pretty for dead thing."
"I'm still breathing."
"Not for long."
He charges with surprising speed for something his size, twin blades whistling through the air where my head was a heartbeat before. I roll aside, sand grinding between my teeth as I come up swinging.
My blade skitters off his thick hide without drawing blood. He laughs, a sound like grinding stone.
"Soft steel," he taunts. "Soft fighter."
"Let's find out."
I feint left, then dive right as his massive fist punches through the air. My blade finds the gap between his ribs and his arm, drawing first blood. It's not deep, but the crowd notices.
"Lucky cut," Grokthar snarls, pressing his free hand to the wound.
"Skill," I correct. "Something you might want to learn."
He roars, shaking the arena. His blades force me back; I lack his strength and reach but possess speed and rage. Memories of lost brothers, failed rescues, and captivity fueled my fire. I weave through his attacks, my blade striking repeatedly. Small cuts added up, soon his green hide runs red.
"Stand still!" he roars in frustration.
