Chương 10: Until Sunset (2)

Teren went still. The pits—the fighting yard where the crowd cheered whenever something heavy struck flesh. A guard grabbed his arm. Teren twisted away before he could stop himself. The guard's spear came up. Teren froze, with his fists clenched. Across the yard, two guards were dragging the lizardfolk captive away by his arms. His body hung limp between them, his feet leaving long marks in the dust. Teren forced his hands open.

"I can walk," he said. The guard stared at him for a second, then shoved him toward the left side of the compound.

"Then walk!" Teren began walking because getting beaten unconscious here would teach him nothing about where this new option led. The fighting enclosure stood behind a high timber fence reinforced with iron bands. The cheers grew louder as they approached. Men shouted wagers from somewhere inside. A bell clanged once, followed by a roar from the crowd. The guard pushed open a side gate. Teren stepped through. The smell hit him first. Blood. Sweat. Mud. Old straw. Cheap alcohol. Something sour beneath all of it.

The enclosure was larger than he had expected. A packed dirt pit filled the center, lower than the surrounding walkway by a few feet. Rough wooden rails circled it. Soldiers leaned against them, some in leather jerkins, some in chainmail, some with swords at their belts and wooden mugs that likely held ale. A few wore better armor and short cloaks fastened at the shoulders. Off-duty knights, perhaps, or lesser nobles pretending this was training rather than entertainment. They laughed with the rest.

At the far end of the pit, one man lay crumpled on his side, one arm bent wrong beneath him. Blood ran from his mouth into the dirt. His opponent stood over him, breathing hard. The opposing fighter was enormous. Not as broad as the captive from the wagon, perhaps, but taller and heavier through the belly and chest. He had no hair on his head, and one of his ears was misshapen. His dark reddish-brown skin marked him as another race Teren had never seen before.

Two short tusks rose past his lower lip, and his long, thick arms hung almost to his knees. He stood hunched with his heavy legs slightly bowed beneath him. Is that an... orc? Looks like it. The orc held a length of thick wood in both hands—not a proper staff and not quite a club. It looked more like a broken support post torn from some building and wrapped with leather near one end. The injured man tried to crawl away.

"Please," he gasped.

"I yield. Let me live!" The large fighter raised the post anyway.

"Brakka, that's enough," a well-dressed officer called from beside the pit.

"Take the injured man to the healers." The orc fighter—Brakka—lowered his weapon. Two attendants climbed down and hurried toward the bleeding man while the watching soldiers shouted, laughed, and hammered their mugs against the railing. The small crowd cheered as Brakka raised his arms in victory and roared. Teren stopped walking. The guard behind him shoved him forward.

"You're up next." Teren turned his head slowly, his heart threatening to jump out of his chest. The guard grinned.

"Still wanna mouth off to us?" Teren grimaced and looked back at the pit. The big fighter still had the post raised above his head, accepting the cheers as if he had done something clever. He didn't look particularly clever, but he was more than strong enough for that not to matter. Teren's ankle chain was unlocked while he stood beside the pit gate, wondering if he could survive against this orc for even a full minute. He looked around in panic, wondering whether he could find a way to run.

A second guard removed the last of the iron from his ankle. For the first time since waking in the current loop, nothing bound his arms or legs. The missing weight around his ankle felt strange, though he was nowhere close to free. A soldier nearby noticed the way Teren was looking toward the open yard beyond the side gate and laughed.

"Run, and we'll put an arrow through your back before you reach the compound's wall." Another soldier lifted a bow slightly, not drawing it, just making sure Teren saw it. The guard who had brought him there leaned close.

"Not drag ya back. Not chain ya again. Dead. Understand?" Teren understood. There was no way to run from this. Not if he wanted a chance to stay alive. A negligible chance of winning was still better than being shot by a trained archer. He looked at the pit again. A thin man in a stained red vest stood near the wooden railings with a slate in his hand.

"New blood?"

"Today's arrival," the guard said.

"No magic or trade, but he's got a damned big mouth on him. Yard-master sent 'im here." The man in the red vest looked Teren over.

"Name?"

"Teren Marr."

"Hm... Build is decent." The man tapped the slate with a piece of chalk.

"Maybe he lasts a round."

"Nah, he won't," one of the soldiers snorted. Another laughed.

"I'll put two coppers on him lasting longer than the last one."

"Against Brakka?"

"I said he'd last, not win." More laughter followed. Teren ignored them as best he could. Build's decent, huh? He looked down at himself properly for the first time in several loops. The tunic was filthy and loose, but not enough to hide his muscles. This body's arms were stronger than his old ones on Earth had ever been. Not huge, not like the lizardfolk captive or the orc in the pit, but lean with clear muscle through the forearms. His shoulders were solid.

His legs, now free of the chain, felt light but strong beneath him. When he shifted his weight, his body responded quickly. But being fit only helped so much when he had no damned idea how to fight. Teren had memories from Earth. Offices. Streets. Trains. Kitchens. Arguments. Books. Screens. A body that didn't exercise nearly as much as it should have. He had no memory of sword drills. No childhood brawls worth remembering. No instinct for reading a man's hips or shoulders before a strike.

And this body gave him no hidden fighting ability either. Whatever life its previous owner had lived, Teren had inherited the muscle without any of the skill to use it. The only thing he knew for sure was how easy it was to die again.

"Rules," the man in the red vest called, though his bored tone made it clear he did not care whether Teren listened.

"Start when the bell rings. Keep fighting until the other man can't or one of you yields. If you're still standing, we send in another. Last until sunset, and you might get sponsored by the captain for the weekly tournament." The weekly tournament. It was not freedom, but it could be a way out of the slave yard—and perhaps a chance to reach someplace better. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. One of the soldiers near the rail snorted.

"I'm not even putting in a bet today. Brakka always wins anyway." Teren grimaced. Brakka seemed to be the fighting champion of this compound, and the first opponent Teren got was Brakka himself? The man in the red vest smiled without kindness.

"Try to climb out before the bell, the archer shoots you. Try to climb out after it starts, the archer shoots you. Try to yield too early, and Brakka decides whether he heard ya." The big fighter in the pit looked up at the sound of his name, and grinned. He had more than a few missing teeth and he seemed willing to lose some more if he got to beat up another person in return. The side gate opened. Teren was pushed toward the steps leading down into the pit. There were weapons near the bottom.

If they deserved the name. A cracked wooden shield. A short length of chain. A blunt knife with more rust than edge. A narrow spear with the head broken off, leaving a jagged wooden point. A club with one side split. Teren went down the steps. Each one felt too small beneath his feet. I want to use magic. I need to use magic! The thought came hard and sudden. Purple fire had made Edras go pale. Purple mana had woken a lineage resonator.

Purple flame had belonged to a bloodline that built an empire and bonded dragons. Surely something in him could burn one large idiot with a wooden post. He flexed his fingers, hoping a flame would come out. Nothing happened. Of course nothing happened. At the assay, he had pushed mana into a tool designed to draw it out. The device had done the rest. He had not made light. He had not made fire. He had not shaped anything. He had just let his mana be pulled into the assay and watched the crystal glow.

That did not teach him how to turn mana into a usable weapon. He tried anyway. He reached for the feeling he had sensed in his arm. The inner current. The pressure beneath his skin. For one brief second, something stirred. Then it slipped away. Nothing appeared in his hand. The bell rang, and Brakka moved immediately. Teren grabbed the broken spear because it gave him the most distance. Brakka did not rush.

He walked forward with the heavy post resting against one shoulder, not even breathing hard after the last fight. Blood flecked his chest and arms. Some of it was his. Most of it was not. Teren backed away. The crowd jeered.

"Poke him!" someone shouted.

"Run, pretty boy!" Brakka swung. Teren barely saw the motion begin. The post came from the side in a heavy arc. He threw himself backward. The end of the wood passed close enough that he felt air move across his face. The crowd roared in approval. Teren stumbled but stayed upright. Brakka just gave a gap-toothed grin. Then he swung the post again. Teren barely managed to jump back in time, while the crowd cheered. The same thing repeated a few more times, and Teren reached the edge of the pit.

No more space to dodge. Gotta go on the offensive. Teren waited for the orc to raise his arms to take in the cheering after the latest swing, then jabbed with the broken spear. The point struck Brakka's shoulder and scraped across skin, leaving a shallow line of blood. Brakka looked at the scratch. Then he looked at Teren and frowned.

"Shit!" Teren cursed under his breath. He had poked the bear. Brakka swung again. This time Teren ducked. Not because he read the strike properly. Because the man's shoulders shifted and terror dragged him downward. The post passed over his head and smashed into the pit wall behind him, sending dirt and splinters flying. Teren drove the broken spear forward with both hands. The jagged point struck Brakka's belly. It did not sink into it. Dense muscle and thick skin stopped it.

Brakka grunted, more annoyed than wounded, and kicked the moment Teren stood up. The kick hit Teren in the thigh. Pain shot down his leg. He staggered sideways, nearly falling. Brakka's next swing came down where his head had been a moment earlier and struck the dirt hard enough to leave a dent. The dumb bastard is trying to kill me! Teren scrambled away. His leg hurt, but it still held. He had noticed by now that he could move faster than Brakka. That was something. His body answered when he told it to.

He could dodge if he saw the blow early enough. He could survive a few more minutes by being young and light and terrified. But minutes were not enough. Sunset was hours away. Brakka turned after him, neither in a hurry nor looking worried. The orc had probably done this hundreds of times before. He knew the pit. He knew fear in his opponents. He knew that men who ran eventually slipped. Teren circled left. Brakka followed. Teren jabbed again. Brakka knocked the spear aside with the post, numbing Teren's fingers.

Another swing came low. Teren jumped back, but the end of the wood clipped his shin. Pain flashed in his leg. He hissed and nearly dropped the spear. Damn it! The crowd shouted something he did not understand. One of the soldiers near the rail laughed so hard he spilled his drink. Teren hated them all. He hated the clerk. The yard-master. The white-fire attacker. The unknown trap-maker. Edras, for being useful and not useful enough. The dead Corvadryns, for leaving him this blood without instructions.

This city, for existing. Brakka came again. Teren feinted with the broken spear, then darted to the side and thrust just above the big man's knee. The point struck. This time it sank in a little and Brakka bellowed in pain. Teren's first thought was wild triumph. His second was that he had made a terrible mistake.

"You dead now!" the orc growled. Brakka dropped one hand from the post and grabbed the spear shaft. Teren tried to pull it back. He couldn't even move it an inch. Brakka yanked. Teren lost his grip and stumbled forward. The big man's fist slammed into his face. His world turned to pain. Teren hit the dirt on one knee. The crowd disappeared into a dull roar. He didn't stay still. He couldn't afford to. He rolled to the side because some panicked part of him knew he had to move or he would be dead.

The post smashed into the ground beside him, close enough that splinters burst across his cheek. He pushed himself up. His left leg nearly folded. No. No, no, no. He staggered back, blinking through tears and blood. His nose was bleeding. His thigh throbbed from the kick. His shin burned. His head rang from the punch. Brakka pulled the broken spear out of his own leg with a grunt and threw it aside. The wound was bleeding, but nowhere near enough to slow him down.

Teren backed toward the scattered weapons near the steps. A bowstring creaked somewhere above.

"Not the steps," a soldier called lazily.

"Ya don't get to yield before one of you can't move anymore." Teren stopped. Damn these bloodthirsty bastards! The short length of chain lay near his foot. He bent and grabbed it. Brakka swung before he straightened fully. Teren threw himself sideways. The post struck his upper arm instead of his head. Something cracked. Pain tore through him so sharply that he could not even shout at first. The chain fell from his hand. He stumbled, clutching his arm against his body. Broken, most likely. Brakka advanced.

Teren tried to reach for mana again so he could just roast the damned orc. He did not really know what he was doing, but he did not care anymore. There was something inside him. There had to be. Edras had seen it, and the lineage resonator had proved it. He thought about the purple flame, the legendary magic and his dragon-bonded blood. Come on... Nothing happened. Brakka took another step toward him. Come on! Now would be a very good time for a flame to appear.

Teren dragged in a breath and tried to push the mana out of his palm. He didn't care how it worked anymore. He just wanted something to happen. But the flame did not come, and neither did any light or heat. The only thing that came was pain as Brakka's next blow swept into his ribs. Teren flew sideways and hit the dirt. For a moment, he could not breathe. His body curled around the broken place in his chest. The world narrowed to the ground in front of his face and the sound of his own choking. Move...

I have to move! He tried. His left leg did not answer properly. The post came down. Teren barely managed to roll. It struck the ground where his back had been.

"I yield!" he yelled. He couldn't hear any reply with the sound of blood pumping through his ears. Brakka lifted the post again. Teren dragged himself away with one good arm and one useless arm pressed against his ribs. Dirt filled his mouth. His leg screamed when he tried to put weight on it. The orc struck again with a glare. Teren rolled onto his side. The blow missed his head and clipped his hip. Another burst of pain hit him while the crowd above cheered and laughed.

Teren clawed at the dirt, trying to get up, but he could not get up. He tried once again but his leg folded beneath him. Whatever strength or speed this body possessed, none of it was enough here. His body might still be full of mana, but it might as well have been full of smoke for all the good it did him.

"I yield, dammit!" he yelled again. Isn't this a good time for this fight to be called? Brakka raised the post with both hands.

"Brakka, that's enough!" someone called out. The orc either didn't hear or pretended not to hear, as he grinned at Teren.

"You. Dead. Now." Teren saw the shadow fall across him. He tried once more to push his mana. Purple fire. A spark. Anything. Nothing answered. The post came down.

"Brakka! Stop!" someone called again, much louder this time. The orc did not even pause. Teren threw both arms over his head. For an instant, the descending post seemed like it was moving in slow motion. Then it struck with the force of a battering ram. His arms did not slow it at all. Bone broke beneath the impact, and the heavy wood crashed through them into his head. The crowd's cheering was the last thing he heard.