As they dropped the body on the stable floor, two deep thumps resonated through the room. I let out a loud sigh. The day wasn’t supposed to start like this. My new apprentice, Temys, approached and stopped beside me. He couldn’t have seen more than fourteen summers, and he was shaken by the sight.

“Is he dead?”

I let out a second sigh. “Yeah. Don’t know about where you’re from, boy, but in Draj people cut in half tend to be dead.”

The color drained from Temys’s face, and his hand grabbed my forearm to steady himself.

“But… but they were just supposed to do some sparring.”

I could see sweat forming on his hand, which felt cold against my arm.

“Yeah, that isn’t our problem. That’s for Master Liugtak to worry about,” I said. I took a good look at Temys and felt bad for him. “Don’t worry boy. I’ll take care of the mess. Go get the gear that needs fixing and make sure the gladiators’ meals are ready.”

“Yes, old one,” Temys said with relief and reverence.

I stretched my back. My spine cracked loudly, sending a sharp mix of pain and relief. I let out a low grunt.

“Old one? Tsk. Call me Xoratual, boy, or I’ll regret carrying all that dead meat for you.”

The body parts were a bigger issue than simply cleaning up. I had to decide whether to feed the body to the cilops right away or wait for Master Liugtak to inspect the damage.

The cilops the stable housed was a picky bastard. The giant centipede liked its meat fresh, and would sooner try to rip the flesh off my arm than touch anything that had been dead for more than a couple of hours. I had plenty of scars to prove it.

Accidental deaths during gladiator training no longer bothered me. But this one was different. The dead man was Hanador, one of the stable’s veterans, and the culprit was our new acquisition — a tortle. And an unhinged one, at that.

Tortles might look slow and stupid in their shells, but those who survived an encounter with one never made that mistake twice. This one had no interest in being a gladiator. That made it worse - he’d rather rip a man in half than perform for the crowd. Sheer madness.
A croaking roar interrupted my thoughts, “You want WADAH! You want WADAAAH!” Temys’s terrified scream echoed down the corridor right after.

I rushed out. The body would have to wait for Master Liugtak.

In the next room, an enraged kenku had cornered Temys, all his black feathers puffed up, his beak snapping at the boy, who was shielding his head with his arms. “No, no, I don’t want water, I don’t need! I don’t need it, sorry!”

“Work! Work! Idiot bird!” the crow-man shrieked, swiping at Temys with his sharp talons despite heavy ropes restraining him.

“Krawraw, please! Enough with the tantrum,” I said.

Krawraw stared at me balefully. He wasn’t the best fighter we had, but he didn’t need to be. The crowds loved him and had bet on him for years.

I raised my water gourd.

“Catch.”

He snatched it midair with his winged arm.

As he drank the water, Krawraw kept giving me the evil eye, the boy really had riled him up.

“By the God-King, give the boy a break, he’s new.”

Krawraw shook his head slowly, then hurled the empty gourd. It flew straight into Temys’s face with a loud smack.

“You want WADAH, you idiot bird!”

“Boy, let’s go!” I helped the poor lad to his feet. “Krawraw, keep your anger for the arena, will you?”

The kenku tried to stare me down, his large pitch-black eyes unblinking.

“Give us the gear that needs fixing before tonight’s fight. Then the food will come. They even put some nuts in it today.”

The kenku started shouting again, but he started gathering the gear we’d have to mend later. That was good enough for me.

Temys remained mostly silent as we did the rounds of the other gladiator chambers and after a while he almost whispered, “What’s wrong with him? He offered me water, and then just…”

“Yeah, you don’t have kenku back in your village, do you? Krawraw is alright. It’s just you need to understand that he doesn’t really speak. Everything that comes out of that stupid cawking beak is something he’s heard before. Repeated many times.”

Finally, I saw Master Liugtak rushing down the stairs, clutching a wine jug, which wasn’t improving his mood. He jerked his head toward the room where Hanador’s remains still lay and swore under his breath.

When I got to the room, he was pacing angrily.

“By the bloody moon of Guthay, what is that mess?”

That’s Hanador’s top and bottom halves, I almost spat.

“There was an incident with the tortle. He isn’t willing to train, but he knows how to fight if forced to.”

“Obviously,” Liugtak said. He stared down at the remains with a sour expression. “Shit, I was going to sell him next week.” He kicked Hanador’s head half-heartedly.

Liugtak stared at the body parts for a moment in silence, deep in thought, then blurted out, “I’m hungry. Let’s grab something to eat at the stands outside. We need to discuss tonight’s fight.”

Which meant, I’d be watching him eating.

We left the stable through the walled yard, which lay just by the Palace of Gladiatorial Combat, the arena where sacrifices to the God-King and gladiatorial combats were held.

A few food stands stood in the shadow of the vast pyramidal Father and Master Temple. We could hear the shuffling of feet and wood cracking against wood from the other nearby yards as gladiators trained for that evening’s fight.

Master Liugtak sat at a table. As usual, I remained standing. I knew better than to expect a seat. While he got comfortable, I discreetly stretched my neck and back, trying to work out the kinks.

A servant appeared almost immediately, “The usual, honored guest?” she asked, bowing her head.

“The usual, girl. Also some extra bread, and a chai with a drop of wine.”

She backed away without raising her head.

He looked at me. He was fifty-something, heavy without being fat. He’d bought the stable twelve years ago. A spoiled and bored noble that needed to be entertained. The thing was, he found making money as entertaining as a bloody gladiator fight.

“Sit down Xoratual, you ain’t hungry, right?”

Surprised, I took a bench. He didn’t wait for an answer.

“That was an ugly morning. Hanador was supposed to bring me his weight in ceramics, which I rightfully counted on.”

He paused, and looked around conspiratorially before lowering his voice. “There’s nearly a whole stable’s worth of gladiators that have just arrived from Nibenay. The owner died or something, and the family is selling everything. Anyway, there’s a lot of exciting new blood in that lot.”

I nodded.

He waited, but I just kept nodding.

The food arrived quickly, and he stuffed himself “I want to talk to you about Krawraw.” he said with his mouth full.

Here we are, I thought.

He tapped his wooden fork against the table before getting to the point. “He’ll be fighting this first timer tonight. A scrawny elf who got on the wrong side of a moon priest.”

“I know. It’ll be more of a show than a fight.” I said.

“I’ve taken a position for Krawraw’s defeat.” He took a gulp of the chai and winced. The way he always did when it was too sweet. “A position?” I asked.

With his thumb, he pushed the last bit of food onto his fork. “Yes, a bet on his defeat. We triple the winning prize if it’s a fatal one.”

We.

“Ok, but aren’t Krawraw’s fights a steady source of income?” I asked.

“Nah. Not like they used to be.” He swallowed the last bite.

“Besides, those odds are too good to pass up. I still owe the final payment on that damn tortle. If we get this right we’ll get two or three gladiators just as good as him. New exciting fighters for the plebs to bet on.” He said without embarrassment, smiling at me.

“I will take care of it.” I said.

He patted my hand. “Look, this needs to work.” He paused, eyes narrowing. “You’ve always been a hard-working slave. I’d never dare complain.” He smiled, his eyes shining with either sincerity or avarice. “You can bet on tonight’s match.”

He took another sip of the chai, grimaced, and pushed the empty plates away. The servant returned with a hesitant smile.

“One ceramic and three bits, honored one.”

Liugtak wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked up at her for the first time. He chuckled quietly and his voice stayed pleasant. “Come now. We both know that’s not how this works.” He tapped the table once. “Your brother really loves betting on gladiators, doesn’t he?”

The girl’s shoulders tightened. She gave a tiny nod and backed away without another word.

He tossed a single bit onto the table, just enough for the chai alone.

“Give him this wine before the fight. Tell him you st…”, he stopped as he was about to say stole, but the word felt distasteful even for him.”…that I forgot the jug in your workshop and you thought it was a gift.” He said, correcting himself and nodding toward the untouched jug he’d carried since this morning.

He stood just as the midday sun reached its brutal peak. “Xoratual, bet but do it responsibly. If anyone smells something funny…” He left the rest unsaid and walked off whistling without dismissing me.

I slipped away before the servant returned for the plates, walking back toward the training yard, unable to take my eyes off the wine jug.

In the training yards, I had an unexpected surprise. The tortle sat in the shade of the wall, his massive head half-withdrawn into his shell, while Temys stood well within arm’s reach of the boulder-sized brute. They were talking, I couldn’t make out a word, but they seemed to be having an enthusiastic talk. For a moment, I thought the heat had finally cooked my brain.

Then I spotted two of our psionic trainers. Thin and wiry men with intense owl-like stares fixed on the turtle. They were either keeping him docile or were ready to stop him the moment he decided to remove my apprentice’s head.

Either way, they had come up with the idea of using the boy as bait. Brilliant. Obviously, getting Hanador cut in half this morning hadn’t been enough.

I walked straight toward Temys, mindful of any sudden movement the tortle might make and staying just outside of his reach. As I approached, I caught part of their conversation.

“I fell from the moon, young human,” the tortle said in this deep, low, guttural voice. He slowly pointed one of his thick claws to the sky. “Ral is my mother.”

“The moon? Like the moon in the sky? Ral?” asked Temys.

The tortle stretched his neck slightly farther out of his thick shell. It was longer than I expected.

I grabbed Temys by the sleeve and yanked him backward. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the psionic trainers visibly straining as they fought to keep control over the tortle.

Once I felt we were out of immediate danger, I gave Temys’s sleeve another sharp tug.

“What were you thinking?”

“Did you hear that?” he asked, still puzzled. “He said Ral is his-“

“I wish I hadn’t,” I paused and blinked twice. “Boy, those are exactly the kinds of things that’ll end up getting you killed.”

I dragged him down to the workshop and snatched up the weapon and light armor Krawraw had left for us to repair. I slapped the boy on the shoulder.

“You’re going to take care of his heartpick. First, I want you to change the bone handle. Don’t wrap it too tightly; it annoys him. Once the obsidian head is reattached, use whatever time you have left to sharpen it.”

Temys’s eyes widened in panic when I handed him the weapon. “Uh…but Xoratual, I’ve never done anything like this. Will you show me?”

“Sure boy, don’t worry.” I waved the wine jug. “First I need to drop this off with Krawraw. I’ll be right back. Don’t waste time, though. The fight is only a few hours away.”

I left without looking back.

Krawraw’s chamber was a mess, as usual. One of the chairs lay on the floor, and he sat hunched on his bed.

“Do you want wadah?” he asked me as I entered.

I winked and held up the wine. “Got something better. Master forgot this in the workshop. Been sitting there so long it might as well be a gift.”

Krawraw’s eyed me sideways. For a moment, he said nothing. Then he looked at the wine for a much longer moment. “You stole it! You stole it!”

“By the two moons and the God-King no! Don’t insult me. There’s no thief among us!” I grabbed the jug genuinely offended. I felt my cheeks turning red with anger. I was not a moral man - I knew this about myself. But being called a thief, by a foreign slave of all people, was too much.

“Sorry! Sorry! Okay!” He raised his hands. It took all my goodwill to regain my composure.

I hesitated a moment before handing him the wine. He kept looking at me sideways, suspicious, but his gaze kept drifting back to the jug and his eyes softened. Rumor had it that wine was what had landed him in slavery in the first place. This time it looked like wine would land him six feet underground.

His claws were visibly shaking. For a moment I worried he might smash the jug over my head instead of drinking it.

“All right,” I said. “Good luck tonight. I’d better get going. I still need to adjust your armor.”

“Hey!” he let out as I opened the door, then searched for the right words. It was usual for sentences that were uncommon for him. “Thank you, friend,” he said, pronouncing each word carefully.

Shit. My stomach knotted up. I’d known him for years. I hesitated. There ain’t no friends in an arena, I’m sorry.

“It’s nothing! But I gotta go,” I answered with a friendly wink and my best smile. I’ll have to live with this.

Temys was already hard at work on the obsidian pick, and it was going as badly as I expected. He had swapped the handle, but, just as I’d hoped, he’d picked one from the box of used and discarded handles. Those never lasted more than a couple of bouts, even when they still looked decent.

He struggled to reattach the obsidian head. I stepped in, made it look just right, then handed it back. The head would fly off after a hit or two. I’d done this often enough to know.

I let him sharpen the obsidian pick. Minutes later came the hollow, muffled crack of obsidian fracturing. Temys froze, waiting for me to react. I said nothing and kept working on Krawraw’s armor. It didn’t take much. A strap even a half thumb-length off and that was enough to screw him up.

HURRAAAH!– We could now hear the first roar of the crowd cheering for the opening ceremony.

Down the stuffy hall, Krawraw was being helped into his armor. He took one last gulp of the wine, most of it spilling down his chest feathers. He dropped the empty jug, shoved Temys aside with the back of his hand, beat his chest a few times, and bounced on his talons as the noise from the stands grew louder.

Then he staggered, bracing one hand against the wall and gasping for air.

Temys rushed over. “Old One, can you stop the fight? I don’t think he’s fit, he almost fell when I tightened the straps.”

I took two ceramic pieces from my pouch and cracked them both in half. “Listen. Go to the east stands and find four different wager-takers. Place bets against Krawraw. Don’t come back until it’s done. A quarter will be yours. Understood?”

“No, oh, by the moons that’s not good. He’ll get killed…”

“Enough. Take the wagers. If you don’t have the stomach to watch the fight, that’s alright. I swear it’s all right.” I held his gaze. “But, the God-King be my witness, if you don’t place the bets I’ll feed you to the cilops myself.”

I kept my hand held up with the ceramics, and had to grab his hand and force the coins in. Those were all the savings I had managed to scrape together in the last six years as a slave. Pathetic.

Temys relented, shaking his head. I was relieved the boy didn’t start crying; he even managed to look me in the eye and mumbled he’d do it.

I made my way into the northwest stands where our stable’s fans gathered. The crowd roared as the gladiators paraded around the arena floor. This was the real betting time.

Krawraw was matched against that scrawny elf clutching a sharpened wooden stick; he looked terrified. Scared was fine, I just hoped he wasn’t too scared. I bit my lip when I spotted Temys across the stadium placing the bets - I really hoped he wasn’t too scared, that was all of my money on the line.

Krawraw staggered into the arena, basking in the screams of the crowd. They seemed to think that his weaving was some kind of entrance dance. Maybe Krawraw thought so too.

Their fight was first. The kenku’s flashy style had always made for an entertaining opener. People felt good having a first easy win, with Krawraw being put against gladiators who were just poor folks put on death row for the show.

The gong rang out - DOOONG - reverberating through the whole arena; the fight was on. Krawraw was still staggering, but he staggered with a little too much confidence to my taste. That cursed wine only made him meaner, if anything.

The elf on the other side stood frozen, holding his stick, and looked as if he was trying to hide behind it. The elf might have been a full head taller than the kenku, but he was easily a stone lighter. By the Dragon, a horrible thought crossed my mind, did someone even bother to sharpen his stick?

“That stupid elf is praying.” I muttered to myself in disbelief. If it wasn’t for my bets, I would have prayed that Krawraw take his sweet time to butcher that elf.

Krawraw charged, swinging his obsidian pick at the elf’s legs. The elf somehow blocked it with his stick. The pick’s head didn’t fly off, but somehow managed to stay in one piece. The elf backed up, wide-eyed. The second swing connected. Just as I’d expected, the head snapped clean off as it hit the elf’s chest. He fell, rolled, and yelled in pain. Ungrateful bastard, that blow should have killed him.

Krawraw kept coming with only the handle left in his hand. His movements grew wilder as a loose strap from his armor distracted him. At that moment, the elf found his courage, and hurled his stick with full force.

The stick slammed into Krawraw’s head with a sickening crack. He tottered back and forth with the shaft still lodged in his skull. A few loose feathers drifted down onto the sand. The arena fell silent. People held their breath. Then his knee buckled and he toppled backward into the sand with a dull thud.

The arena erupted in loud consternation and angry shouts. I nodded at Temys, but he didn’t see me. He stood frozen, mouth agape, staring at the sand turning crimson beneath Krawraw’s body.

He’d get used to it. Everybody did.