Avarice Blacksteel

Baiting the Beast

Aran was relocated from his cell to another larger, brighter one. His chains and iron collar were removed, and when he did wake he was naked on a straw pallet freshly shaven and washed. He sat up abruptly, the change in his environment a shock to him, he was disoriented.

Vaguely he could recall his struggle and the fight against the creeping suffusion of the drug he had been given. He was still tired, but felt much better. He rose and stretched, looking out onto the arena floor. There was as most always nothing of interest to catch his eye. He looked about him, he was in a Spartanly furnished room. It was still naught more than an iron cage. He sat back down on the bed his head in his large hands still not himself.

Aran was about to lay back down when a movement in the cell beyond caught his eye. He saw the face of the shaven headed man staring back at him, blunt featured and boorish. He knew that face, and had hoped never to gaze on it again.

He was at once arrested and his ire rose in him with startling force. Aran was face to face with his vanquisher with only the space of one empty cell to divide them. Control may have been his to command were it not for the man’s words. “If it ain't my bitch.” The champion laughed mercilessly. Aran looked across the expanse of iron bars steeped in vitriolic hate. He felt sick, shamed, and angry all in the same breath. He had a raging desire to kill this man who stood just feet away, this immutable desire had the intensity of nothing he had ever experienced before.

“I will kill you.” Aran rasped softly, hatefully, with all the passion of a lovers promise. The champion gladiator just laughed.

“Yeah, like last time?” He goaded.

Aran snapped, attracting the attention of his keepers. However they did not interfere. They let him vent his ire as he burnt out his wrath smashing his solid body into the bars achieving nothing but his own hurt and subsequent exhaustion.

Unbeknownst to the incensed warrior, Keith and Master Jacques were both standing on the arena floor observing Aran’s unrestrained fury. Jacques said nothing as he studied the seemingly crazed slave. In his long career since the war he had seen more than a handful of captives descend into the maw of madness, but the slaver had to admit he had never seen anything akin to this in all his days. Could this kind of unstoppable fury win against experience, and cold calculation? He was not sure, but in a few days he would find out.

He looked across at the grave expression on Keith’s face. He wondered what the man was thinking. He had after all made an immense wager on the strength of his judgment. He admired the belief in his man, there were few who would so readily put their welfare where their mouth was.


For three days Aran listened to the goading threats and jibes of the man so close to him, yet so out of reach. He erupted into punishing fury often, he simply couldn’t help it.

The nights were even more unbearable, he would hear the man with a nominated slave girl that had been brought to him as a reward. The moans of pleasure, the smell of sex borne to him in the dark. He was after all the champion here and accorded many liberties.

Want and desire inflamed the golden giant, suffused in a sea of blind hate. He was so lost in his basic emotions it never once occurred to him that his relocation had any kind of deliberate nature. He had simply reacted to the stimuli as an animal would.

On the fourth morning a messenger bearing the Wolf Lords crest had ridden into the courtyard, he dismounted and handed his sealed letter to Master Jacques. The swarthy man opened the envelope tearing the wolfs head seal of red wax, smiling unabashedly at its contents. Tell your Master we have a deal.


“It's time to celebrate.” Jacques patted Keith on the back. He was in a jubilant mood this day. “Are you ready for our wager?”

“Yes, Sir. I believe he is primed and ready.”

“Good ready them, and we will begin at midday.” Keith nodded and left for the arena floor below giving no clue to his feelings. Jacques stared after his man’s retreating back admiring his courage.


Jacques dined well this morning, good news meant good food, and although it was no special occasion other than the fact he had struck a very lucrative deal, this day had an air of a holiday. Most of his staff and free men were called to celebrate and of course to witness the games he had planned for the afternoon entertainments.

He looked up as Aurianne was escorted through the doorway, and bid her to sit. His impassive faceless men stood flanked behind her, unobtrusive, but ready for trouble. Jacques set down his earthenware cup, and leant back in his chair crossing his fingers and cracking them loudly. This was a constant habit with him.

“You look radiant.” He commented. Aurianne looked at her jailer coldly, he took no chances. She had hoped he would be lax with her considering she was a woman. However in many weeks of captivity he had given her not one opening she may take toward freedom.

“You are to be married, your bride price has been paid.” Jacques said cheerfully.

Aurianne did not acknowledge him, though his words did terrible things to her inner calm. She stared straight ahead over the table top, past the brown glazed handcrafted earthenware laden with delicious smelling food. She could not imagine having to marry some faceless man whom she knew nothing of. Surely he would be no more than a tyrant or a barbarian. She was learning swiftly that most men fit into one of these two categories.

“Eat with me.” He invited. A naked slave girl appeared with seemingly no summons, and set an empty plate before Aurianne. Her cool blue gray eyes watched the poor creature depart. It was difficult enough to be a woman in these lawless times, but she felt grateful she was at least large and strong compared to many of her sisters. Aurianne was determined to be no man’s plaything.

Aurianne selected some of the spread before her. She must stay strong after all. She knew when the time came there would be little nourishment beyond the slaver’s walls. She prayed she would see the outside of them soon, before her ‘husband’ came to claim her.

Master Jacques returned to his eating, he was not a man of refinement Aurianne reflected. Her own mother would have scolded her for such terrible table manners. He slurped his wine, and ate with his fingers or the point of his knife, wiping his hands on his clothes. Watching him made her feel all hope for a better word had been abandoned. This was truly a dark age.

As she sat there pretending to be composed. Aurianne was struck with a strong sense of déjà vu. She felt cold, even though the great dining hall was far from it. She cast her eyes about her. The room though large was homely enough. The warmth of lamps and candles bathed the area in a comforting light. The fire sputtered cheerfully in the stone hearth. There were no demons present, nothing harbored in the shadows all claws and gnashing teeth. Perhaps, she thought, the real demons were only in her head...


Aran watched on silently as the champion donned his armor, it was almost ritual. Keith helping him into the many pieces of leather and steel one by one. The man was quiet and unusually today had said nothing to him at all. Single unimportant words came to Aran’s ears, but he did not hear most of what was exchanged. He turned away, the man would fight, kill, and return. It did not interest him, nothing did.

None could accurately determine the hour of midday anymore. The clocks all broken, and those that still worked by some miracle only showing a rough estimation of the time, having been simply set by their owner's judgment. Time and its measure had become a very loose terminology especially since the continuous clouds had blanketed the sky some months before. It simply was the sky seems at its brightest so midday it was.


After the first contest which was no contest at all, between naught more than a poor untrained wretch and a pack of savage dogs, Aran heard the disturbance of feet coming toward his cell. He already knew who it was, Keith.

He had learned to feign great disinterest in most all things. Like the much gazed at lion in a zoo, Aran had turned off to all of his observers in the main. Mostly looking through and past them. There were very few who could rouse him to passion, the emotions of love and hate being so closely aligned, he saved those for only two.

So he did not react as Keith came through the first of the divides from the arena proper. Aran’s eyes were closed, he was reclining in a very easy posture on the straw bed, scratching at the occasional irritating flea which still survived here in spite of the cold. His back to the clangor of the bloody events being played out just mere feet away.

“Fight well,” was all the man had said.

Something in the tone of the man’s voice pulled Aran from his lazy disinterest. He rolled over to see the arena master already departing, but not before he had set something hefty and darkly shining in the dust at the end of the corridor. The warrior rolled off the bed in a fluid movement uncharacteristic of his great size. He paused at what he saw. Blacksteel had been returned to him.

He rubbed his large hands in the red dust, the heavier sand and pebbles falling through his fingers to return to the floor. A fighters trick it would help his grip. With such a large and heavy weapon most necessary.

In an act of quiet and most thankful reverence Aran lifted the prize he had again never thought he would grasp from the dirt. A sense of well being and calm descended over him like a blanket. It was as though he had finally awoken from a tortured dream. He would kill his foe this day, enact his vengeance, and cleanse his soul.

Aran took his time to walk into the ring, he did not have traditional thoughts this day, they had returned to the time before the war. A time he mostly had pushed from his musings long ago, and tried heartily not to revisit. The sounds and sights of his childhood rising to greet him as he exited the dark corridor hewn into the red earth. The face of his father, patient, strong, and smiling down at him. Aran’s example of all that was good in a man long gone from his life.

His mother dear to him, she too torn from his reality. War had taken all in such swift succession, his brother’s bravery had not been enough. If only they could see their sons now, he wondered, what they would have thought?

More animal than man Aran felt little abasement in his nakedness, ignoring the many eyes on him. Only the task at hand foremost in his mind. It may be as little as ten but probably no more than twenty minutes before this would be settled. The air on his flesh was cool, but Aran knew in a few moments he would no longer feel its minor discomfort.

His hated adversary and defiler waited opposite him, recollection of the earlier, shameful defeat firing Aran’s blood. The solid man was clad in full plate and hardened leather armor, clutching the much feared battle axe. His body representing an impenetrable fortress. The weapon curved headed, honed and gleaming, a sharp spike on the opposing side that could easily penetrate the most sturdy of armor.

Aran already knew in that one glance at his rival he was not supposed to win this day, the odds of success were not stacked in his favor, and it was not chance. However Aran looked away from the brutish man, his baleful emerald eyes raking the spectators on high. They paused at her, he drank her in, but did not linger on her perfect poise, instead his vision coming to rest on Master Jacques.

Aran looked right at him raising Blacksteel in what appeared to be a gladiators salute. The crowd roared thunderously, he did not hear the clamor of their adulation. He saw again as he had that day of his capture the resurgence of fear in the old warriors eyes. Your champion dies and then you follow. Aran conveyed his meaning with unspoken recognition. It had both been registered, and acknowledged.

The golden man winced, tensing as his arm was flooded with unexpected pain. The tip of the great weapon extended in his fist wavered for mere moments unnoticed by all but himself. A fleeting taste of fear coursed through the young challenger, his wrists were not bound in leather for support. He was out of practice as well, and after many weeks languishing in his cell no longer as conditioned to the leaden weight of the blade.

"Give me this Blacksteel." He muttered, "just this moment." Now afraid his old injury would return to hobble him.

Silent minutes elapsed as the two men waited in the ring of death for the signal to engage. Master Jacques stood, and there was an expectant hush. It was not every day one had the opportunity to bear witness to such a spectacle. There was no speech of introduction, only a simple clap of hands, resounding loud in the still cool air signaled the contest to start.

They circled one another, the Master’s champion seeking to goad his opponent into careless abandon with a few well placed taunts. Aran did not bite, it was essential he maintained control. If he broke from such discipline he would die.

Both combatants bore weapons that were of a lost art and age. Men would have to relearn their use as the last of the ammunition dwindled and guns became dinosaurs, or merely useless symbols of status. These men were the forerunners in the new age of steel.

Aran could see his adversary held the advantage, not in his obvious armor for even though he was protected it would serve to slow his movement, tire him faster, and make him more vulnerable to being toppled. A downed man was often as good as dead.

Both men’s weapons were two handed in their employ, though a strong man could easily use the axe in just one and often did. Blacksteel being solid metal was undeniably heavier, though Aran when pressed could also use the blade single handed. Something very few men could boast.

His aggressor was close now, let him come Aran thought, acutely aware he could not afford to be struck even once with the axe. To fail in this would almost certainly decide the outcome. He must keep moving, tire the other man and force him into a mistake.

The golden warrior had seen his clansman Gareth use this very same weapon with frightening dexterity, it often cut a great swath in a crowded battlefield. Yes, he knew this weapons strengths, and its weaknesses also.

The confident and skilled champion broke caution first. Charging for his first strike, keeping his weapon guardedly close to his body. Aran parried the attack, the side of his broadsword sliding down the length of steel handled weapon with a sharp scream of protest. It came to a jarring halt, catching on the guard, the champions gauntleted hands quite protected.

For one moment the two men were mere inches from one anothers face, cheeks almost touching. “You fight like a frightened woman.” The shaven headed man whispered from within the dark recesses of his helmet. Aran pushed the man off him with bone sundering force, he was the bigger and the stronger of the two men, but the champion did not fall.

To fight without rules was an inglorious thing; not at all the romantic and stylish myth it was painted in history, books, or film. Most often such combat dissolved into nothing more than a savage fist fight, but it did not matter.

Master Jacques was drawn into the contest, entranced at the skill of the giant with the ancient weapon as he repeatedly blocked and parried the axe screaming through the air for his blood.

Jacques regretted his decision then, however it was too late to rescind his words. He was still very unsure who was the better man. He glanced across at his arena master who watched on impassive, arms crossed over his chest only a short distance from him. He was as always unreadable in his scrutiny of the desperate contest unfolding beyond.

After getting some measure and feel for the man he was fighting, Jacques’ champion was becoming more confident in predicting the moves of his opponent.

Aran all the while trying to maintain some distance to avoid the likelihood of injury. Forcing the man in the majority to chase him. This may have looked like an act of cowardice or uncertainty to the untrained eye. Many in the crowd certainly thought so, and voiced their displeasure loudly.

However each of Aran’s moves had cunning purpose, the golden warrior was deliberately running his opponent ragged. He could hear the man’s heavy breathing barely minutes into the bout, the other man must by now be feeling the weight and restriction of his protection. Aran was already covered in sweat from his efforts, even in the cold it was not easy to fight at this frantic level, even naked.

The cruel curved head of axe passed close by him again, he dodged.

Blacksteel’s reach was the greater, and he held the weapon before him low hoping to possibly trip his foe, but the man did not overreach, choosing to withdraw. Waiting instead to again close on him in another furious attack. This time pressing Aran to the earthen wall, a place he desired not to be.

Dirt and debris showered into his eyes as the axe struck the wall to the side of him. The blond warrior raised his blade covering his vulnerable body, forced to go on the defensive rather than attack, the axe colliding heavily with his steel. The spike on its backside coming perilously close to Aran’s face, arms, and chest as he fought viciously to keep himself whole.

The armored man was still pressing him to the wall, trying to get in close so Aran could not successfully use his sword. Aran meanwhile trying to wrest a path to freedom whilst blocking the chopping, savage strikes with his great blade.

He took a risk letting go of his two handed grip, immediately feeling the betraying weakness in his sword arm. Ignoring the sharp pain he pushed his opponent violently under the chin with his free hand reaching beneath the helm. He stripped the skin from the back of his hand in doing so. Muscles straining he pressed the man backwards and twisted free from the wall and the confined space, gasping as he almost dropped blacksteel from his single handed grasp.

Many times Aran twisted away with an agile, evasive maneuver, but this time as the now enraged man came barreling at him Aran held his own blade aloft seeking the softness of the throat beneath the helmet and the breastplate. His assailant countered, going in low, attempting to bring the axe up between Aran’s legs.

Aran moved swiftly as he saw the intent, withdrawing the threat of his own blade, and before the young warrior could react he saw to his terror the man had merely feinted in a clever trick to unbalance him.

He felt the menace of axes curved head catch him behind the left knee, the champion jerking it forward hard in a confident two handed grip. There was no escape, Aran fell winded to the ground on his back, blacksteel standing erect, poised in his defense.

The crowd gasped, ripples of uncertainty running though all assembled as they saw the blond giant fall prone in the dust, and the champion bear down on him. Keith did not move nor look at his Lord, he did however close his eyes for a but a moment.

Jacques did not miss his man’s subtle display of fear and doubt. Then cast his own dark eyes back to the glorious contest, beginning now to think his champion was indeed the better man.

Aran had little time to think, letting his instinct guide his moves more than any conscious thought as the axe sundered the earth where his right shoulder had been only seconds before. As he rose he scooped up a handful of sand and cast it at the eyes of his opponent, blinding him. Gaining his feet only to realize he had been wounded, the behind of his left knee torn and weak, and bleeding profusely. He had to will the limb to hold his weight. He was left with little alternative but to now press his back to the wall and remain there.

His panting, salivating adversary came at him again. His blow misplaced due to the dirt that now hampered his vision. It did not matter the axe still raked a large gash across Aran’s pectorals as he again fended it away. He was fighting with such desperation he gave the damage little thought, he felt the ripping sensation, but his uncooperative leg was bothering him far more.

The tendrils of defeatist thoughts were on him, through the haze of pain and exhaustion he looked up at her. Hoping to sight Aurianne just one final time. Pursuit of her had led him to this after all.

A split second, the most fleeting of glances, she gave him courage and the will to continue. His muscles tensed, and he thrust the solid man from him, using the full rune etched length of the sword in the style of a staff. The champion balked only just recovering his balance; he had erred thinking his opposition was close to being stifled, and demoralized.

Aran rounded on his opponent drawing on his former blind fury and goading his own hatred. Ignoring the weakness in his leg. This time he did not defend, there was no caution in his swift rain of attacks. He was on the offensive, he did as he had always done on a raid or in the lust of battle. The well crafted sword collided with the steel breastplate rending the metal. Aran was not surprised at this, he had seen Blacksteel do so before and knew of its capabilities.

The champion paused gazing on his mortality, though in essence it had done no more damage than merely graze his midsection. The solid man again sought to raise his weapon, this time more desperately and much higher.

Blacksteel struck the raised axe in the apex of its deadly arc, sparks flew from the steel’s strident clash. As the champion dared to gaze at the weapons locked overhead, Aran took a dangerous but calculated risk and tripped the man, however he fell also.

Neither man could rise, the contest now became one of desperate struggle. The crowd sensing the finale was close pressed forward, some even urging encouragement to their respective favorites. Jacques could have arrested it at any moment but he found he was so inexplicably drawn he could not do so.

Aran had risen to one knee, the back of his left calf bloody. It was apparent he could not gain his feet. Then neither could the champion weighted down by the plate he wore. He had rolled some distance away working furiously to stand before his opponent was again on him. He had the axe positioned under him trying to lift his tired body from the dust of the arena floor.

Aran knew what he had to find, willing his screaming body to obey just one last time. Blacksteel dug into the hard earth, the golden warrior pulling himself erect via his hand hold on the pommel of the great sword. He limped slowly towards his frantically struggling opponent, who in reality was more exhausted than injured. The dark magnificence of Blacksteel dragging behind him in the dust.

His arm twinged painfully as he took it in a two handed grasp, but in true warrior spirit he ignored it, knocking the man back to the earth. His adversary rolled on to his back, tiring. His heavy armor bringing him undone, trying one more time to wield his axe in a low flurry at Aran’s ankles.

Aran who was in no position to evade, blocked the weapon with this sword, then deftly wrenched Blacksteel from the hard clay of the arena floor. It sat poised above the champions breast.

His opponents movement was most restricted as he lay prone beneath his attacker, both by his position and the restrictive protection he wore. He simply did not have the space or freedom to swing his weapon. Aran knew this was one of the weaknesses of the axe, even in a very tight space a sword could still effectively stab. The axe had no such redeeming quality.

Aran did this now with no hesitation, nor hint of mercy. Every vulnerable chink in the armor did his heavy pointed blade seek. In a desperate attempt to avoid his impending demise the champion tried to kick Aran’s legs from under him. He missed and opened up yet another opportunity for Aran’s blade to pierce him just below the armpit.

Jacques stood abruptly, many closest him noticed their leader pause including Keith. Would he halt the contest? Jacques and his arena master exchanged meaningful glances and as they turned back to the savage battle Aran had the tip of his sword under the visor of the man’s helm.

The blond warrior looked at his adversary, he was not supposed to triumph, he saw that in the doomed man’s eyes. The man’s bleak gaze already told Aran he had rescinded this fight calmly waiting for his death to be dealt, and in the passage of seconds it was granted. Blacksteel seeking and piercing his throat, neatly and cleanly.

Jacques champion had surrendered bravely, and fought well. In spite of his hate of earlier Aran took some time through the noise of the crowd to commend this man on his brave challenge, and to thank his luck he had prevailed. His troubled spirit had been cleansed.

There was a rousing cheer from the assembled crowd though it was clear many had not expected nor wagered on this outcome. Aran stood above his vanquished rival whose blood was mingling with the sand, his great chest heaving, his long blond hair covering his grim visage. Both hands gripping the pommel of Blacksteel tightly for support. The veins in the backs of his hands pronounced. He could not run, nor stand and fight, he was the trapped beast.

Aurianne had seen this manifest in her dream of the night before, a coldness not of the prevailing weather washed over her. However there was more she had sighted, and like some hellish vision it began to unfurl before her like the petals of a bloodied rose.

Aran raised his wild, blood spattered countenance skyward, green slitted eyes only alighting on one man. Jacques in the stands. Aran was not yet finished, he had a promise to deliver, and adrenaline coursed through his veins. Injured or not, he would not die here slaughtered for amusement.

Great chest heaving with exertion. He staggered as he raised Blacksteel from the earth with one last supreme effort. “Face me!” Aran screamed in challenge to Jacques as he stood above. “Face me you fat, soft, coward.” Words well chosen to incite a fighting man’s ire.

Jacques just stared down his misshapen nose at that wild man. His meanly pinched face belying little sense of emotion. However inside unbeknownst to others he quailed with a new found fear. That same dry mouthed fear he had first experienced when Aran had set upon him just after being newly captured.

The slightest almost imperceptible nod as the slaver held his churning emotions behind an exterior of calmness. Jacques’ men moved swiftly to surround the freshly blooded ring, gun muzzles poised at the raging blond apparition who was screaming now with animal abandon for blood. Waving bloodied blade on high.

Jhary had stopped playing, setting his guitar in his lap, elegant hands idly caressing the now mute strings. A man could only take so much the bard thought sadly. Such a waste, he had been honored to know such a brave man and call him friend.

The distinct sound of pistol hammers being cocked. Aran though paid that warning sound no heed. He was enraged, running on the last of the adrenaline his body had furnished to ensure his survival. He cared not if he lived or died. Only that this be finished here today.

“You're not man enough to fight me, you son of a motherless whore!” He screamed to the blustery wind that was once more on the rise. Voice echoing off the walls of the pit. The crowd was bathed in eerie silence, where only minutes before a sense of festivity had reigned.

Jacques, the center of the incensed warrior’s wrath could hold his composure no more. Fear had begun to rule him, and he did not wish others beneath his command to chance witnessing it.

Aurianne realized the beginnings of Jacques signal to shoot, and bolted forward of her own accord. She had no idea what she was going to do to diffuse the situation, nor even why she had acted. “Nooooooo, stop!” She yelled over the murmuring of the assembled crowd.

Aran meanwhile had run forward in a rush of dying fury, and was trying to scramble from the pit heedless of his ruined leg. Some of Jacques’ men had lowered their weapons in the ensuing confusion, unsure what was wished of them. Others looked poised to fire regardless at the slightest provocation.

Aurianne cried out as she saw Aran flailing at the wall, he had half cleared its height and would soon be over the top. Jacques took an uncertain step backward in the stands. Keith meanwhile put himself protectively in the path of the onrushing threat, protecting his Lord and friend with little care for his own safety.

Jacques was looking at Aran, then back at Aurianne with darting black eyes that bespoke of fear.

Keith rushed toward the edge of the pit. Knocking with deliberateness a shower of loose sand and debris into Aran’s eyes. Aran roared like a wounded animal and doggedly clung to the wall, precariously close to freedom. Several of the men aimed gun barrels over the pit, eyes trained on sights waiting for the instruction to kill.

“Stop! Aran, please. They will kill you, stop!” Aurianne pleaded, her voice loud and strong over the commotion.

Aran paused in his berserk rage for just a second, his stout fingers finding purchase on the edge of the pit. However, the slim chance at freedom and vengeance were too appealing.

Jacques stared at the strong and bloodied hands in horror, followed by the sight of large well formed biceps, and a shaggy blond crown of hair.

Keith alone was ready. He had handled many dangerous men before, and while he respected their fury, he did not fear it. He was not arena master here for nothing. He knew what blind bloodlust could do. The power of it, but also how it could distort a man’s judgment.

He waited for the precise moment, and as he saw the warrior look up he kicked him hard in the forehead sparing no force. Aran grunted and for a moment fought to stay atop the wall he had tried so hard to gain. His lithe animal grace almost saved him, but Keith trod down on his fingers hard with his metal shod heel.

Aran bellowed and fell in a shower of dirt and loose stones. He hit the ground hard some fifteen feet below with a groan, again attempting to rise. Blacksteel skittered away to lay some feet distant, blade coming to rest almost buried to the hilt in the soft sand.

Aran looked up though eyes burning with sand and blood. Men were above him, swords at his throat. He lay back down and ceased to struggle, in truth he had little energy left. Kill me he thought, let it be done with. He closed his eyes and tried to swallow back the splitting headache and the accompanying nausea that mocked him.

Rough hands sought him, he could not move for the sharpness of keen steel hovering over the hollow of this throat. The familiar voice of Keith commanding men, the resounding clink of heavy iron chains dragging in the sand. The feel of imprisoning steel fettering his wrists and ankles. He closed his eyes again and exhaled deeply. He had lost, and there was no place in this world for a man who would claim a second prize...


Jacques sat at dinner, examining the neatly cloven breastplate his champion had worn only hours before. Marveling at the cleanness of the place where the metal had been cleft. He took another drink from his hammered bronze tankard, death had walked a little too closely to him this day. It was a sensation he had found he had lost heart for many years ago. Life was comfortable now and sweet, and he desired to keep it that way.

He picked at the meat and potatoes laid before him on the wooden platter, and gazed with a heavy lidded stare at his arena master, who sat opposite cleaning the remnants of gravy from his own plate with a hunk of crusty bread. They were this evening the only two seated at Jacques’ table.

“You were not exactly level with me were you Keith?”

The arena master looked up with surprised blue eyes, mouth full. The tangent of the conversation plainly lost on him. He had been focusing on his very satisfying meal, and the beautiful girl he had won who was sitting at his feet. Dreaming of her charms that he would taste shortly. “I do not understand Sir?” Keith said finally in bewilderment.

“You knew, didn’t you?”

“I knew what Sir?”

“About this!” Master Jacques held up the object of his close examination, waving it in anger and frustration. “You knew that weapon of his could pierce steel! You knew it when you accepted my wager!”

“No Sir, I did not.” Keith returned bravely and calmly.

Jacques went silent for a time, brooding. He drank another tankard of wine, downing it without tasting. His lank and greasy dark hair hung over his face like oiled ropes. “We cannot keep that man.” He finally stated. “He has it in for my blood.”

Keith nodded in affirmation, this happened with the occasional, accomplished fighter. Some men were just too wild and strong to keep. The first time Keith had lain eyes on the man, he had known it would come to this.

“What would you wish me to do Sir?” Keith offered as benignly as possible sensing his superior’s imminent wrath.

“He is of some value.”

Keith was not sure if this was a question or a statement. So he simply replied with a “Yes.”

Jacques nodded. “Patch him up. Keep him sedated. I will find a buyer, someone far away.”

“Consider it done Sir.”

“Good.” Was all Jacques had to say upon rising and leaving the table...