Into the light of the field, Orin emerged. The dry, coarse earth crunched beneath his boots. The mid-morning light warmed his skin. How many times did the air feel just like this, Orin wondered. All-in-all, the day felt like a hundred others he’d experienced in the outer ward. All that changed was that he stood before an entire kingdom, sat on stacks reaching seventy-five meters high around him.

Then again, there was also the sound too. The thunderous cacophony that assailed their group from the moment the gates of the bay had raised. Orin had expected to hear mockery from the lower seats where the residents of the inner ward sat. Yet, from the field, the shouts and jeers of their audience were no more distinct than the faces that observed them. To Orin, the crowd felt like a separate entity entirely. A thing that spoke in a garbled and twisted tongue apt only to convey a general feeling of yearning.

Orin allowed his gaze to drift up to the highest seats, reserved for citizens of the stone ward. A thousand faces looked down upon him, yet he found no comfort in the distant mass he once belonged to. He cast his gaze away. I hope she never knows, Orin thought.

A nervous energy was echoed among the other entrants. They had spread out cautiously. Most stood ready, anxiously eying the gates for any signs of their enemy. They held their weapons with stiff arms. Some practiced swings and jabs with a level of confidence only undermined by the presence of a visible shake.

Orin held his axe up. It felt heavier now than it had in the fighter’s bay. His hands trembled, and the head of his axe began to noticeably sway. Maybe its my grip? Orin's hands slid down the wood, brushing past the langlets which held the wood of the shaft together. He gripped it low, trying with both hands to hold the weapon still. Soldiers don't shake, He told himself. He needed to be controlled with every blow, precise when it counted. Now was no time for nerves.

“Put the blade down, kid. You’re tiring me out just watching you.”

Nearby, the tattooed sailor from before, Hereldson, stood at ease. His blade rested unsheathed against his hip. Its tip sunken into the soft earth. Orin lowered his axe, “How much longer do you think it will be?”

The sailor let out a brief chuckle, “Not until they loose those flying bitches.” He gave Orin a curious eye, “You’re from the stone ward, no? Have you seen these fights before?”

“Of course I have.” Orin said, puffing out his chest. “Lanius and the bears. Clast versus Xir. The Winged Trout’s gauntlet. I’ve seen them all.” That last part was a lie, but he’d heard the story recounted so many times it felt true.

“Not the fights. I meant these fights.”

“I’ve seen the paupers too,” Orin said. Although, his voice lacked the confidence he had displayed previously. In truth, he couldn’t recall any. He had never missed a fight his family had been allowed to attend, but the paupers were never the main attraction. He wanted to see feats of strength and skill. A challenge or a trial. The paupers… they were… a tradition. A handful of inexperienced men who gambled their lives against whoever the kingdom had last bested in combat. Orin understood why men did it, afterall, here he was. Even so, their struggle had never appealed to him. It was unexciting. Barbarous, even. “What’s there to know? It’s us versus them, and the odds always favor us.”

“You should know this won’t be anything like a prize fight or ten-piece challenge the real fighters get to dance through. To the crowd, and the King above,” Hereldson gestured to the Junk King’s terrace, adorned with pillars of jade and cut-off from the other stands, “we’re chum in the water. We’re here to make the real fighters look good. What happens next will be bloody and slow. At least, it’s going to feel that way to us.”

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“You speak of odds. What odds? You’re barely a man. Odds are whoever they send to gut you wide has more experience with a blade than you do with your right hand. What makes you think anything is in your favor?”

Orin ground his teeth, “It doesn’t matter, I’m here.”

“It matters if we’re down a man because some stupid kid has a death wish.”

That tone. It struck him, the taste of rotten fruit from a rotten tree, familiar and bitter. I will always be a fool to them, he thought. Selfish, reckless, a liability. Orin bit his tongue. He had made his choice, he was here now. So why did he owe an explanation?

Orin turned, shifting away from the sailor, “I don’t c—”

“Dead gods, boy. Are you here to fight or die.” Hereldson said, before he could finish.

Orin flexed his hand around his axe. “I didn’t wander in here by mistake,” Orin growled. His heart thumped heavily. It was a welcome feeling.

“Good,” Hereldson said, allowing the tension to break. “Then cover my side. Buy me enough time to deal with my opponent and I’ll cut down whoever’s holding your head.” Orin responded with a glare. The sailor’s grin returned, broader this time. “That’s a good look in your eyes.” A hint of pride in his tone, “Make sure whoever you’re fighting sees it and it might buy a few more more seconds before he runs you through.”

Internally, Orin sighed. I hate people. They bring out the worst in me. “You’re awfully confident, fatass.” Orin chirped, “They might overlook me. What are you counting on?”

Hereldson chuckled. One of the contestants nearby snorted, a wiry Irrisian man. “I’ve been on the sea more days than you’ve been alive, boy. This won’t be my first time fighting besides some nunny-legged dregs and a runt.” Hereldson gestured to his person, “And as you can see, the fittest always survive.”

The nearby entrants chuckled at that.

“That said, when you’re riding the sea with no god down below every man just wants to see the shore again. If this lot doesn’t know how to row, they’ll figure it out fast.”

An air of agreement was shared between the nearby entrants. It seemed they had been listening to Hereldson. He did command a certain respect. How had a man like him ended up here? The sailor’s words hung in the air as Orin looked at the gates opposite of them. Few words had been shared between his fellow entrants in the bowels of the colosseum. Yet now he saw it had all been unspoken. They would work together until the end was in sight. They might not take orders or fall in line, but even if they were dead men walking they hadn’t come to concede.

Nearby, to Orin’s left, a man pulled off his threadbare shirt. His pale skin, near translucent in the light, was webbed with the scars of old burns. They snaked across his right-side, from lower lip to right hip. “Why ‘avn’t they blown the ‘orns yet?” He asked, his scarred lower lip stiff.

“I was thinking the same thing,” the wiry Irrisian man said, “Things do feel… different this year.”

“It’s the same every year,” another said, dismissively. “They’re just playing games with yur heads. The Junk King likes that kind of thing.”

The Irrisian looked around, mouthing something beneath his breath, “No…” he said, “Something is different.”

“What’s that?”

“There are too many of us.”

A frigid moment followed, the air stiffened as each man weighed the Irrisian’s words. If there were too many of them, it had fooled Orin. He’d counted their number at sixteen, but how many men normally fought in the paupers? The initial bouts fought by the fighters were always found on equal terms, or in colored teams; large scale reenactments were reserved for the Horintell’s army to retell their glory in staged combat.

“A ‘ew more than usual, what’s it matter? The fights are always in our favor.” The burned man said.

The panic was already subsiding, and a nearby stone warder in green trousers spoke, “A few more soldiers, nothing we can’t handle right lads?”

The odds are in our favor, but there’s always a chance. . .