A Moment of Satisfaction - Gladiator Whump Prompt #14
Multiple Guards / Colosseum Monster Whumpee
There are 3, 4, 7 men piling on top of Whumpee. Someone shoves his hand into her wing feathers and grabs, damn near tearing out the whole handful. They always pin the wings first, they always have to ground her. She could kill them. It'd be easy for her! They're cheating. She's livid.
She shrieks, claws at the arms trying to subdue her, bites down on a hand trying to silence her. Human blood is a familiar, boring taste but at that moment it at least feeds her rage and satisfaction.
Her legs are immobilized, but in a rush, humans always forget the tail- she swings it down and back-
"ARGH! DAMN THIS BITCH-" and rips through flesh like a whip. Someone restraining her legs falls to the side of her and she flattens her ears and scrambles to get the leg beneath her and flip on top of the man on her other leg, ripping her wing away from the one holding it in the same motion. The man she now has pinned- Young, inexperienced, weak- Holding on with only his arms, so when she flipped the position he was thrown onto his back. Her knee is on his neck.
The other men back away by instinct. She flexes her hands, her claws, her talons. That's right. She's a dangerous animal, apex predator. They all know it. They can't control her. She's wild and powerful.
She breathes raggedly. There's only a moment's hesitation, and- they're cheating. She'd have won. But there's nowhere to go.
A bigger man finds the balls to tackle her off his friend without warning- she isn't sent rolling but moreso crushed under his weight for the second before their momentum puts her next to and not under him anymore. She immediately launches herself away, making it two feet in the air before someone catches the top edge of her wing on the downswing and she slams right back to the ground on top of the other wing.
CRACK-
The angle is just wrong and pain rockets up her wing and into her back, though it was something in the far joint that fractured.
Squawk- a boot crashes into the side of her throat and she instantly knows, that's it.
She's sent into a coughing fit, curled in a ball and unable to even tuck her wings into a cocoon without a stabbing, throbbing pain that seems to not want to stay at its source, lighting up the nerves in her entire leftside back as well.
Heavy metal rattle and clink, they haven't brought these out in a while. Hadn't needed to. The manacles are a cold burden round her wrists, ankles, neck. The chains make them ten times heavier. She hopes many days are ruined by this besides hers, and really she knows because no one profits from having a fighter who can't fight.
Something is badly fucked because her wing can't even return to the bent resting position without excruciating pain, so the kid from earlier is carefully supporting it while two other men are firmly holding her with their shoulders under her arms as she limps, now that she's stopped trying to maim them. Her vision is blurred, slightly. It might just be the sand that got in her eyes. The sand or the ash.
The blinding hot light of outside seems to fall instantly to a cool, damp darkness once they start descending the steps, practically carrying her. Every jostle of her wing makes her lose her breath trying to stay quiet.
This'll be expensive to fix, she thinks. Not too expensive- worth it, but only barely.
Her wing pangs. She licks the blood off her teeth.
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I was thinking about gladiator whump (which I could make a post about just in and of itself. but anyways) what if someone was there willingly, maybe eagerly even, for the thrill or the glory or what have you. And they thought all their opponents were in a similar situation. But then they find out that's not the case. Their rival was forced into this against their will. Forced into the violence, the risks, the public eye, the pain, all of it. And the one who signed up willingly immediately goes into hardcore protecc mode for the person they'd wanted to tear apart only moments ago
Iâm reading this book on gladiators and it talks about how traditionally gladiators wouldnât have scabbards, so their sword pommels were tied to their wrists (to make it harder to disarm them). And Iâm just thinking. The symbolism. The angst.
Go a step further. Imagine a whumpee forced to fight, their weapon chained to their hand. They cannot escape the violence they will commit. A symbol of power turned into a ball and chain.
I'm not the best at writing action scenes and I'm not sure if this is quite the way I want it, but here you go! A very normal and refined duel, featuring two normal and dignified knights, and most importantly, Kyrie getting the shit beaten out of her.
Today's match is supposed to be a big one. Kyrie can tell.
She doesn't yet know who her opponent is, but her heart won't stop pounding, and she can't tell if her nausea is from the anticipation or from how they didn't feed her this morning. Her gauntlets clink as she flexes and unflexes her fingers over and over and over again, the porcelain-white of her armor and waist cape, Lady Avaline's house symbol embossed onto her breastplate.
Her longsword is in her lap, the light reflecting off its sheeny white surface. Kyrie looks up as her Lady walks in, heels clacking on the stone preparation chamber. Kyrie stands up, then bows deeply on one knee to meet her.
Her Lady tsks, smoothing out Kyrie's sweaty hair, grabbing her crownchain-ring and forcing her upwards, looking into her eyes.
"I don't know what Lord Paral has done, but I suspect foul play," she says, in that soft way of hers. "Whatever it is, you're going to win. Do you understand?"
Kyrie nods.
"You know the consequences if you fail me again," she says, in a way that makes it clear their severity. Then she kisses Kyrie on the cheek, just below her brand, grabbing Kyrie's helmet from the bench and making sure it's aligned properly, and then she is gone.
Kyrie grips her longsword tightly, pacing back and forth, eyes stuck on the closed iron gate leading into the area. She does know the consequences, and she can't afford them. Foul play. What could that entail? It was set to be a standard until-incapacitation duel, the rules of which have remain unchanged for years. Her martial victory will also be a political victory for Lady Avaline, who needs a way to silence Lord Paral's malicious rumor-spreading at court; who himself was trying to convince some other noble to accept him as an auxiliary house, giving him more authority over mercantile contracts or some other such nonsense. Kyrie doesn't pay much attention to court politics, and luckily, she isn't expected to.
The gates open, and the thick moonlight begins spilling into the long hallway. Taking this as her sign to enter, Kyrie walks down the hall, longsword in hand, boots thumping against the flat stones, then crunching in the arena's thin layer of sand.
The sensations suddenly become much more intense as Kyrie steps into the moonlight. From one side of the arena, the nobility; they did not holler, really, but made a ruckus of their own, completely with a mixture of individually pleasant perfumes, combined together as to emanate a veritably noxious odor. Even with a quick glance, Kyrie can locate Lady Avaline, who does not cheer or smile, but fixes upon her with a sharply discerning glare.
From the other side, the citizens. By law, all duels of any type must be accessible to the public at a reasonable fee. They show their enthusiasm more vocally than the nobility, at the very least, chanting and hollering. The entire arena is separated from the stands with a thick wire mesh, ensuring sabotage is highly unlikely. The upper edge is lined with spotlights.
Most of the excitement is directed towards Kyrie's opponent. Lady Avaline is not particularly popular, although she does intend to change that, and Kyrie is an important piece. It makes her feel good, knowing she's useful.
Stiffly, Kyrie waves to the audience, to display she isn't entirely ignoring them but also would prefer to. Her opponent â one "Bondknight Yew" â seems to be taking his appearance in much more stride, acting the showman. His armor is a deep, deep gray, complete with fancy red adornments. Lady Avaline would disapprove greatly; how is he supposed to be a competent knight with an ego like that?
The officiator reads off the rules, all of which Kyrie has heard before, and introduces each duelist. While he's droning on, Kyrie notices Yew fiddling with something around his neck area. Nobody else seems to take attention to it, but she glares as he shakes himself out, and something small and metallic drops to the sand. He covers it in a way that could easily be construed as unintentional, and then grips his gray-painted war staff in the starting stance. Kyrie eyes it; probably reinforced with steel through the core, its ends are covered in bumped metal.
The officiator calls for the duel to begin, and Kyrie begins cirling around the arena, always facing her opponent, as is customary. The first one to attack is usually at a disadvantage, but the duel doesn't technically start until the first strike is thrown. The longest pre-duel sequence Kyrie has ever heard of took about 3 days, until one of the duelists finally collapsed from exhaustion.
The pre-duel does not last for 3 days. It lasts for about one second, until Yew dashes forward across the ten-yard gap between them, lunging wildly. Kyrie steps aside, with one hand on the back of her sword and the other on the grip. She should be at a decent advantage here; she has less reach, but â
Yew swings again, and Kyrie is too slow to respond, gasping as the staff hits her stomach, all the air knocked out of her, stumbling. She looks â and although the audience is too far away to see, there is a ferocity in Yew's eyes, one that isn't normal, even for someone who knows there are consequences. He swings again, and Kyrie drops to one knee, and then he swings again, and then Kyrie's sword is knocked out of her hands, and then he swings again, and then Kyrie is flat on her back, her brain only just now registering she has nothing to hold.
Her hands are stinging sharply from where the sword was wrenched out of her grip, and then Yew brings his staff down onto Kyrie's ringing head, but she manages to catch it in time. One advantage of blunt weapons was their ease of handling, but that also went for your opponent.
Kyrie pulls the staff, but Yew pulls harder, and she uses the opportunity to get on her feet. She has too much forward momentum, however, and crashes into Yew with her shoulder, trying to knock him to the sand. But he only stumbles, so Kyrie throws a punch, aiming for his head â but Yew, somehow, manages to catch it, and twists her arm towards an unnatural angle. He growls something, but between the roar of the audience and Kyrie's ringing ears, she doesn't manage to form the random sounds into words.
She grits her teeth and punches again, aiming for his abdomen, as he's unable to block with the staff in his hand. It's unwieldy at such a short range, but he seems to realize this, and drops it quickly. Their movements soon devolve into what is essentially just wrestling; she grapples him, he headbutts her, she kicks him away and they separate. His clawed gauntlets leave thick scratches on her armor. She goes for another kick, aiming for his crotch, but unfortunately underneath his waist cape he had the good sense to wear a codpiece. Kyrie was not so thoughtful, and his kick is much more impactful, leaving Kyrie screaming through gritted teeth.
She steps back, but he lunges again, with a beastlike energy, clawed gauntlets eager to gore. Her arm is still throbbing from where he almost broke it. Did he break it? Well, her brief moment limping backwards leaves him with an opening to grab his discarded staff and slam it across Kyrie's abdomen, knocking her onto her back, then slamming it right onto her breastplate, making a grotesque crunch. All the air leaves her lungs, and she can't do anything but heave there for a moment, trying futilely to keep him away.
Yew will tire himself out eventually. That level of energy can't be sustained for long, surely. Kyrie crawls backwards, managing to redirect a blow aimed for her head onto her lower leg instead, leaving it throbbing. She staggers to her feet and tackles him, leaving the staff discarded again, using her superior weight to her advantage. At this point, her ears are so attuned to the raucous noise of the crowd that their absence would be more disruptive.
She pins Yew, punching him in the face again and again, until he shoves with a strength that almost seems inhuman, and she stumbles backward, and he lunges forward.
Flat on her back again, she lifts her legs up to ward off Yew's dive, but instead of pushing him away, she simply kicks upwards and lets him sail far past her. The noise is deafening; hearing becomes a vestigial sense, for the moment. Kyrie staggers again to her feet, ignoring her exhaustion and the pounding in her head and heart, and realizes she's heaving but taking on very little new air, but still trudges over to Yew in the sand and falls on top of him.
Some people are under the delusion that dueling is a refined, dignified art. But there is very little that is dignified about the way Kyrie and Yew hit each other, Yew scratching her armor and almost seeking to maul her, while Kyrie attempts to follow the rules and incapacitate him. He knocks off her helmet. She stomps on his shin. He shrieks, an inhuman sound, and nearly takes her head off with his uppercut. She smashes his head into the arena wall. His eyes are wild and diluted, and for the first time Kyrie considers that he may not be sober. She can barely stand, struggling to see through the white-hot pain of her arm and her scratched face and through the ever-present drumming of her headache.
The taste of bile is thick in her mouth as she stops engaging, and staggers backwards, falling on her ass, slowly, robotically pulling herself backwards. Yew keeps trying to get up, but his leg won't cooperate, and his fingers are too smashed to get a good grip on the sand to drag himself forward. He won't stop screeching, but eventually Kyrie's back hits the wall of the arena, and she finally takes a look at her armor and it is covered in red, red blood. Eventually, Yew collapses and doesn't get back up.
Her senses returning to her somewhat, Kyrie remembers that she is a bondknight in service to Lady Avaline and tonight she will go to sleep in a bed and tomorrow she will wake up and do knight things, and her entire existence has not been spent in a hot arena fighting a hopped-up beastman. She is almost too exhausted to move, but she is able to raise her arm high enough for the officiator to count her as the victor.
"And the victory," he says, his voice clear and ringing, rising above the crowd, like an angel, "goes to Lady Avaline Renoir!"
Gladiator whump but the gladiators aren't owned, they're compelled by their circumstances to particpate in dangerous arena fights for a pittance, or even just for a chance at prize money. Gladiators who, out of despair, will climb over each other to be chosen by the ringmasters for more fights where they might be injured or killed.
Loose, uneasy alliances are formed in the underbelly of the arena to watch each other's back while waiting for their fight, because no one's above sabotaging their rivals.
Deaths in the arena are rare--a simple honour systems means a killer can't expect to survive themself when bested--but always a looming possibility, whether by accident or malice. Sometimes the ringmaster will hire a mercenary without the same qualms to spice things up.
For some of them this violent world is all they have, with no one but themself to piece themself back together after a fight. Others struggle to balance it with caring for a family member, or their other two jobs.
Some gladiators become popular enough with the audience they get to fight multiple times in a day. The downside, of course, being that they get to fight multiple times in a day.
Evenly matched fights are the worst--drawn out and brutal, when neither opponent can easily end it. They're also the most fun and exciting to watch, so they're as common as the ringmasters can make them.
The ringmasters are wholly indifferent to the fate of any given gladiator. After all, there's more where this one came from.
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been thinking about rome and gladiators recently so here have gladiator whump about a lady knight
Writing masterlist
CW: lady whump, mild gore, forced to kill
The shouts from the arena were muffled by thick stone walls that kept the air cool. Ylja could picture what was happening by the cheers and screams and groans of the crowd, imagining how blood soaked into sand, bright at first before darkening into an iron-stained brown.
She paced, clenching and flexing her right hand - any way to relieve the rage filled tension building in her muscles.
Rage against being cooped up, rage against the costume sheâd been forced into, at the crowd high above her, at the commander sheâd failed to kill. The commander who had sent her to die for other peopleâs entertainment.
You are still a knight, she reminded herself. Remember your dignity.
Noise from outside the cell stilled her agitated pacing. Not the yells of other prisoners, nor the raucous noise from the arena itself, but someone walking, the sound deadened by the sand yet still echoing against the walls.Â
One of the overseers stopped before her. Dressed in the simple tunic and leather cuirass that denoted him as one of the lower ranking trainers, he looked her up and down before unlocking the cell door.
âYouâre next to fight. Follow me.â He moved back, already turning to walk back down the corridor. The way he seemed so sure she wouldnât resist almost made Ylja say no. As if sensing her instinct to run he turned to give her a curious look.
With one look back at the safety of the cell, Ylja stepped next to him, silent as they passed rows of cells full of bait for the arena. Every step they took made the din grow louder, chanting and groans joining the cacophony until the first rays of pure sunlight streamed onto the ground through a barred doorway.
Ylja didnât need to look through to know sheâd see bloodshed on the other side. Instead she focused on the passageway she now waited in.
Rows of weapons lined the walls: swords and maces, axes and flails and spears. On the opposite wall were shields and helmets of all shapes and sizes, some still with dried blood half worn off.
âAny preferences?â the overseer asked, sizing her up. Ylja looked over the swords again but they werenât what she was looking for.
âI want the sword you took from me.â The overseer just laughed. âYou asked my preference - if I am to die, I want to be holding my own sword.â
âThen youâll fight with your fists alone. We do not have your sword. Pick another or die unarmed.â
âWhere is it?â
He shrugged. âI donât know - you should ask whoever brought you here. Choose a new sword.â
Biting back an insult Ylja reluctantly pointed to a longsword that looked as though it hadnât been used in years. It was in the style of swords from the northernmost countries of the continent, the closest thing to her own sword she could see. It had a good weight to it, the leather handle perfectly worn to a soft smooth sheen.
âNo shield?â The overseer seemed confused. Ylja wasnât surprised. The grey tunic she had been given to wear had no protective qualities to speak of other than the thickness of the wool already making her sweat. She glared and he held his hands up.
A roar erupted from the arena as the last fight ended and the overseer pulled her forwards.Â
For the first time Ylja could see the crowd. The bodies merged into a writhing mass of colour, protected from the early afternoon sun by billowing fabric sails that threw shadows onto the arena floor itself.
As the bars in the doorway began to move to the side the overseer spoke. âThereâs a stake in the sand twenty paces forward. Stop there until the fight is started. There are no⌠rules, but you gain more favour for fighting fairly.âÂ
âWhy should I need favour? Iâm only here to die.âÂ
âThe arena has its own mind. Slaves have become heroes here.â
âI am not a slave.â Ylja adjusted her grip on the sword and stepped into the light.
___
The sun was blinding, the heat bearing down on her like a fist, not the slightest breeze to ease the inferno. Ylja forced the world into focus. Three people stood in the arena with her, separated by a vast expanse of sand.
Each one weighed up the others, trying to determine who would be the easiest to defeat, who would be the victor at the end of the bloodbath. Ylja immediately dismissed the man to her right - a slender man burdened by a shield too large for him. To her left was a woman much burlier than Ylja herself, with an expression that implied a preference for cruelty over skill.
The last, the man directly opposite, was the only opponent Ylja gave a second glance. He was dressed in the uniform of the professional gladiators, the fighters paid to perform the most spectacular battles. If the crowd were betting, and Ylja knew they were, they were betting on him.
Ylja redirected her focus to the stands opposite her. In the centre of the rows of civilians was a large platform, a private gallery for the wealthiest and most important people in the empire. Seated at the front was the Emperor himself; the silk of his robes such a bright gold he could have been the sun itself. At his sides were people Ylja didnât recognise, with one exception.
The commander stood just beside the Emperor, dressed in clothes that, while fine, would be more suited to a war room than the largest theatre in the world. Even from the other side of the arena Ylja knew he was watching her.
Well, if he wanted her to die in a spectacle sheâd give him the performance of a lifetime.
Drums began to beat, the deep sound echoing Yljaâs racing heart, growing louder as the crowd became restless, all eyes on a crimson flag high above the centre of the arena. Ylja raised her sword.
Time slowed as the flag began to fall. The woman to her left braced her feet ready to run. The boy opposite looked ready to run. The gladiator only waited. The Emperor took another sip from his goblet. The commander remained deadly still.
The flag hit the ground like a pool of fresh blood.
The cruel woman was already running to the boy but Ylja turned her attention to the gladiator, who was walking steadily towards her.
He wore simple leather armour, hair cropped close to his scalp, and had forgone a shield in favour of two short swords. Ylja risked a glance back towards the boy and instantly regretted it, his now limp body a mangled mess, blood staining the sand all around him.
He was never going to survive this.Â
She met the gladiators blades with the familiar clash of steel against steel, twisting away to disengage and regain the distance between them. They began to circle, each analysing the otherâs movements, searching for patterns and weak spots.
The gladiator lunged first, a smooth flurry of movement that had Ylja retreating. Pain blossomed on her arm as a sword bypassed her defence. She retaliated in turn, her sword just an extension of her arms, deadly and beautiful as it danced.
A flail whirled and the pair broke apart, the woman joining the fray with a snarl. The dance became a hurricane of iron, the cheers and shouts of the crowd merging into a steady roar that drowned out the blood rushing in Yljaâs ears.
Sand began to fill the air, stinging Yljaâs skin as she lunged into a roll to avoid a wicked ball of iron. Somewhere in the chaos she met the gladiators eyes and a sense of understanding flickered between them,
The womanâs attention on Ylja, the gladiator moved, fainting to the side as Ylja threw a handful of sand up towards the womanâs face.
She stepped back, blinded, and the gladiator struck, his swords driving through her back until they emerged below her collarbones. Blood sprayed across the ground as he pulled them back. The flail hit the sand before the woman did.
Breathing heavily, Ylja stood, keeping her eyes on the gladiator. Both were tired now, exhausted from the heat. Again they watched each other, that brief understanding turning to the adrenaline filled hope of survival. The crowd erupted in bloodthirsty cries as their swords once again met.
You are a knight. Remember your skill.
The reminder felt futile as Ylja swung again and again, quickly retreating into a panicked frenzy. Steel cut into her hand, blood making the sword grip slick, the sharp cold burn proving what she already knew.
He was better than her. There was no malice in the gladiatorâs eyes as he forced her back, only detached determination. Again and again he struck hard and fast, and the next time his sword struck Ylja cried out in pain.
It was only a matter of time. A wrong step and Ylja was on her back, hot sand sticking to her bloody hand, mingling with the deeper wound on her arm, the gritty taste in her mouth and eyes.
You are a knight. Go down fighting.
With a raw scream she forced his next blow aside. He stumbled, thrown off balance, one sword lost to the sand. It was all she needed. Rolling to her feet she kicked out and her foot found its mark in his stomach.
The gladiator hit the ground with a grunt. Before he could recover his breath Ylja was above him, sword poised over his throat. His eyes met hers, a gaze of admiration and sorrow and that same determination.Â
Ylja panted. The crowd were screaming, rich and poor alike turned to bloodthirsty savages as they craved the next spilling of blood. Horror dawned on her like the clearest sunrise.
You are a knight. Remember mercy.
Ylja lowered her sword. She wouldnât do it. Couldnât do it. The man in front of her was not her enemy. He was just a man. Forced to compete in the same brutal games as penance for some unknown crime.
The gladiator lunged. A flash of steel, a determined look, and Ylja plunged her sword through his heart.
Shock drowned the adrenaline coursing through her. Ylja let the gladiator fall, the sword still stuck in his unmoving chest. She felt sick. For a moment she thought she was going to throw up right there on the sand but before her stomach could betray her the arena grew quiet.
Squinting against the sun, Ylja looked up at the gallery in the stalls. The Emperor had stood, walking to the front so all could see him clearly as someone entered the arena.
Ylja tensed, preparing herself for a new opponent, but the man carried no weapons, only a wooden sword. He beckoned her forwards and reluctantly she complied, wiping her bloody hands on the grey tunic designed to humiliate her.
âThe Emperor has gifted you your life, if you choose to take it,â the man said, holding the wooden sword out to her.
Ylja looked up again, past the Emperor, to the commander. She had never seen someone look at her with such hatred, such anger. It had been his command that sent her to the arena. If he thought she would go down without a fight he should have killed her while he had the chance.
âMake your choice, girl.â She looked back to the man offering her life in a wooden sword. The crowd erupted once again as she gripped the handle.
"The only way to begin is by beginning." So, bear with me in the fight against brainfog and inertia and my loser mitochondria and the weather itself cuz we're BACK. I might post very short installments but hey it's WRITING again.
Solis Masterlist, you might want to refresh your memory of how the heck we got here. This is a SERIES.
Content: Slavery, Hurt/comfort, well- not much comfort, wound care, a very Stoic grumpy whumpee, and an incompetent nursemaid.
For nearly two days Trainer drifted in and out of sleep, lying face down on the cot in the barracks. His wounds from the lash were slow to heal, and he drowsed through a low fever.
Martin slept on the floor beside the cot, restless and alert to every movement of the patient.
When Trainer was somewhat wakeful, heâd give Martin terse instructions on what needed doing.
âThey brought you more wine?â asked Trainer.
Martin winced. He knew now what the wine was for. It had never been a sweet wineâ it was practically an alcoholic vinegar.
âDonât just sit there making faces, boy, use it to wash the cuts again,â Trainer growled into the cotâs canvas. âYou think I enjoy this? Get it over with.â He gripped the leather-reinforced corners of the cot with his rough hands, bracing himself.
âYou seem to have more strength today,â Martin observed, pouring the wine into a bowl and picking up one of the clean cloths he had for this use. By the morning light from the window, he could get a clear look at Trainerâs back. Some of the whip welts were still an angry reddish color, but the cuts were closing.
He set about washing the wounds, or trying to. He had to dab so as not to drag cloth over the welts, and every time the stuff entered the wounds, heâd see the muscles beneath tense, hear Trainerâs breath hitching against the pain. But Trainer never cried out. Not since the first time theyâd been through this.
Martin could tell it must hurt. He knew the vinegar wine in wounds like that burned like fire. Trainer just gripped at the cot corners hard enough to whiten his gnarled knuckles, with hands that trembled.
Maybe Trainer found some small pride in enduring it stoically, or maybe he was just used to taking pain in silence. Martin caught himself wondering whether heâd end up like that, himself, after enough time as a fighterâ So accustomed to being hurt that heâd suffer without bothering to even waste his breath screaming. If he managed to live so long.
Finally the task was done, and Martin drew a clean linen sheet up over Trainerâs back to keep the flies away from his injuries. Then he dipped up a ladle full of water, and helped him drink it, setting more within easy reach.
Thirst slaked, Trainer cocked his head to one side, listening to the sounds of the other fighters waking and rising. He could tell by sounds who was up and about. âOx! I know thatâs you out there! You got those big feet clomping around,â he rasped. âGet in here, so I donât have tâ shout at you.â
Ox ducked to come in through the little doorway to the niche where the cot lay. âTrainer. Youâre looking better.â
âGods, I hope so. Nowââ He jerked a thumb at Martin. âTake Sunshine here out to the yard, and then I want you to beat him until he stops you!â
âButâ Whoâll look after you?â Martin tried, without much hope.
Trainer snorted. âIâm only goinâ to lie here; I think I can manage that much now without an incompetent nursemaid! You can follow a damn order, canât you, Ox?â
âYes, Trainer!â said Ox quickly.
âGet going, then!â
âHey, wait!â Martinâs cry was nearly a whine, but he didnât care. âWhy?â
âBecause the Summer is well on its way,â growled Trainer, âand at its end, when all the vineyards are stripped, and the wine is pressed, then the Harvest Festival is held in the city- in Parala. The Master always takes a few fighters into Parala and enters them in the games there. And Iâd bet my last eye that one of them he chooses will be you, Martinus Solis.â
âItâs Martin- Well, really it was Maarten, but- Why would he pick me?? I lost a match!â
âBecause you also won a match!â Trainer panted. âHeâll beâ interested to see what youâll do next. Now get out thereâ and quit making me waste breath explaining!â
Ox pulled on Martinâs arm, escorting him none too gently back out to the sandy yard.
