“Cimozjen the Black, the Killer from Karrnath, defender!” bellowed the barker, his arcanely amplified voice cutting through the ambient noise. At the heels of the introduction rose a rash of hisses, catcalls, and even the occasional supportive cheer.
Cimozjen didn’t care. Let the crowd think what they wanted to think. If he made a name for himself in the arena, be that name honored or infamous, it would only make it easier for Minrah or Four to find him and set him free.
He stalked into the arena, holding himself proudly. Even as a gladiator and a slave, he was determined to uphold the honor of the Iron Band and to win every fight that came his way. Only through survival could he possibly make his holy retribution for his fallen brother, and only through survival could he continue to defy those who held him against his will.
Freedom. The first thing he’d do would be to get a decent meal. The gruel they fed him tasted like the underside of a hard-ridden saddle.
He wore his chain mail, padded beneath by his tunic. He wasn’t sure why they let him keep it. He still didn’t have a helm, nor did he think they’d ever give him one. He had his sword in hand, his staff in his off hand, and his dagger concealed at his back.
And he had a seven-day growth of stubble across his chin, slowly forming itself into a beard. He did not relish the thought of using his sword-or worse yet, his heirloom dagger-as a razor, but his other options were slim.
He pulled his attention back to the present, shoving away thoughts of food and hygiene. He had someone to fight. And, unfortunately, someone he might have to kill. He knew that, given his nickname and the reputation he’d backed into, anyone he faced would be unlikely to give him any mercy.
A bugbear entered the far side of the arena, holding a massive double-bitted battle-axe. The creature was large, six feet tall, covered with a coarse dark-brown fur. Large goblinoid ears propped out to each side. The one on the right had a pair of silver hoops run through two piercings, the one on the left was tattooed with a pair of runes or symbols that Cimozjen couldn’t read at that distance. It had small eyes that seemed to glow with anger. Its muzzle was pronounced and powerful, reminiscent of the bear for which the species had been nicknamed untold ages ago. It wore a breechclout and a pair of heavy leather straps crossed across its breast, but no other clothing or armor.
Cimozjen closed the gap, sizing the creature up. It likewise stepped closer, walking upright rather than using the bandy-legged gait Cimozjen had expected.
Cimozjen stopped. He cocked his head, inspecting the bugbear’s features more closely. He smiled. “You have experience in the arena, I see,” he said, raising his voice to be heard above the crowd.
The beast raised his axe and spun it about its haft, then stretched its arms out to the side. “Silence!” it bellowed in its gravelly voice, and the crowd obeyed. “Cimozjen Hellekanus,” the beast continued, shouting. “I bring a message to you from Tholog. He remembers your deeds in this ring, and tonight he wishes to see you die.”
The crowd roared.
Cimozjen lunged with his sword, aiming straight for the heart.
“What was that?” yelled Rophis, leaning forward in his plush chair.
“I haven’t the slightest,” said Pomindras, seated beside him. “I’d swear he was going to skewer that beast just like he did the hobgoblin. He didn’t miss at that range, did he?”
“Of course not,” said Rophis. “The impact pushed the bugbear back. Their breastbones must be tougher than we think.”
“Bad luck to him, then,” said Pomindras. He gestured to the side. “More wine!”
Rophis looked askance at him for just a moment.
“I want to enjoy this,” said Pomindras. He took the proffered goblet and took a long sip. He sighed contentedly. “As much as I can, for as long as he lasts.”
Rophis settled back into his chair, clapping with appreciation as Cimozjen got inside the bugbear’s reach and the two combatants clenched for a moment like wrestlers. It looked like the bugbear was trying to bite Cimozjen’s ear off. Then the bugbear threw Cimozjen aside and took to the offensive.
Rophis leaned toward Pomindras. “My friend,” he said, not taking his eyes off the combat, “I don’t know whether or not I hate the man any more. He caused us problems, it is true, but he is so entertaining to watch. And his callous attitude has drawn out the crowd.”
“Drawn out their crowns, you mean,” said Pomindras. “He makes us a lot of money on wagers.”
Rophis laughed. “You’re right. He may be the best thing that’s ever happened to us.” He turned his head. “More wine!”
Cimozjen stumbled and fell, then rolled quickly out of the way as the bugbear’s axe came down. It bit deeply into the arena surface, spraying Cimozjen with small bits of clay. He rolled further away and regained his feet, panting heavily.
The crowd groaned and cheered at his escape.
He wiped one hand across his upper lip, locked eyes with the bugbear, and said, “Well, at least we’re making a good show of it. I doubt anyone expected you to last this long.”
“It is now time for you to die!” yelled the bugbear.
“Think so?” panted Cimozjen. “Last I checked, I had a say in that decision.” He staggered momentarily, then lunged to the attack. He jabbed his staff at the bugbear’s eyes to distract him, and swung his sword in a low, rising forehand slash, aiming for the hip. He connected right below the crest of the hip. His arm jarred with the impact, but the bugbear showed no sign that he even recognized that he had been struck.
The bugbear swatted Cimozjen’s staff from his sweaty hand. It fell to the clay at Cimozjen’s feet.
Cimozjen stumbled forward with his momentum, but the bugbear backpedaled and used the butt end of his two-handed axe to get underneath Cimozjen’s forearm. With a strong flip of his muscular arms, he pushed Cimozjen’s sword arm into the air, and then he swung crossways with his axe, striking the blade at the pommel and stripping it from Cimozjen’s hand. The sword twirled through the air for about ten yards. It landed point first into the clay, digging a divot before flipping over and landing.
Cimozjen looked at his numb hand. “Blessed Host, that hurt,” he said.
He feinted for his sword. The bugbear swung at his back to fell him as he ran, but he ducked under the whistling blade and doubled back for his staff.
He snatched it up and ran to the center of the arena. The bugbear cagily stayed between him and his sword. Cimozjen shifted his staff to his left hand and drew his dagger from the small of his back. “Here we go,” he muttered.
The bugbear closed, his large hands twisting on the haft of his weapon.
With an efficient little flip of the wrist, Cimozjen reversed his grip in the dagger, holding it point-down for a quick slash-and plunge. He lashed out, aiming to slash across the front of the bugbear’s throat, then reverse direction and stick the blade in behind the beast’s jugular, but in that split second the bugbear’s powerful hand let go of his axe and seized Cimozjen’s wrist in a grip like iron.
Cimozjen’s eyes went wide. With his left hand, he struck the bugbear about the head and shoulders, but the angle was all wrong, and the blows, while loud, availed him not.
The bugbear twisted Cimozjen’s wrist over, then he dropped his axe and pried the blade from the Karrn’s hand. He turned his shoulder and used his weight to drive Cimozjen to the ground.
With his staff, Cimozjen tried to strike the bugbear the harder, but lying on his back robbed his blows of power. The bugbear shifted his grip and grabbed Cimozjen by the throat, using his knees and elbows to keep him pinned. Cimozjen drew up his right hand and clenched it over his heart. “No! Please!” he screamed. His terrified voice sounded alien to his ears.
“It is time for you to pray to the Host,” said the bugbear. The creature glanced down and saw the small hole in Cimozjen’s chain shirt where Jolieni’s blade had nearly skewered him. He maneuvered Cimozjen’s dagger into position. Cimozjen struck the bugbear again and again with the staff in his left hand, but despite his fear, he knew he could not do enough damage to stop the blade.